


Wanderers Found

by TheBookshelfDweller



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, But with a happy ending, Eventual Fluff, Fix-It, M/M, So much angst, at first, eventual smut too, mostly coz I'm still in denial, no seriously, not fili and kili, ok so maybe not everybody, on hiatus till summer, only not the same one, post-botfa fix-it, sorry about that, they'll be happy I swear, thorin and bilbo on the road
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 12:32:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 80,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3249818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBookshelfDweller/pseuds/TheBookshelfDweller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Death gets its fill, in the end. Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain dies that day, somewhere between the barren battlefield and the half-lit rooms of his lost kingdom. Thorin Oakenshield survives, barely, and finds himself to be a ruin, much like Erebor – a once mighty thing ravaged by dragon's lust.'</p><p>Thorin survives the Battle. That's the easy part. Now he has to learn to live with himself. Thorin finds he cannot do this as King Under the Mountain, not after everything that's passed. So, in order to learn how to live, Thorin decides to die. Or at least, to kill the King. By Thorin's command, he becomes dead to Erebor and the world, save a few chosen ones, and sets out on yet another journey.</p><p>But here is the thing - by his own command, Thorin is dead to Erebor, the world, and to Bilbo Baggins. Until one day he learns something that causes him to change his decision and travel to the Shire. Ominous news brings Thorin knocking at Bilbo's door, and that's a beginning of a whole new journey.</p><p>Because, in the end, not all who wander are lost, and some who are lost, must first wander so that they can be found.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red sun in early mourning

**Author's Note:**

> The working title of this fic was "The Evil Fic of Angst". My beta informs me I will never find a better title for it. Still, the current title is a bit more catchy ;)
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> (tumblr over at exlibrisvademecum.tumblr.com)

“Thorin, it's time.”

Thorin looks up from the tapestry he's been studying. It is the one depicting the Durin family tree that Bard has brought around a few days ago, after the Battle, as a sign of good will from the people of Dale. Thorin hadn't been there to accept it, of course. At the time, he'd been in the infirmary, trying very hard to stay alive. Receiving visitors was not really convenient just then.

His sister is standing in the doorway of a small room in one of the decrepit wings of Erebor, high up, near the aviary, and far away from the bustle of the main part of the mountain kingdom, the broken throne, and the slow re-building of their home. It used to be a spare servants room back in the day, and more than once had Thorin, Frerin, and Dis used it as a hideout or a refuge in their games or when the sheer weight of being royalty became too much. Later, Thorin had taken to reading in the solitude of this remote chamber, when the madness in his grandfather's eyes started shining as bright as the Arkenstone itself. Thorin had learned even back then how to hide so that he won't be found unless he wants to be. He likes to think he still knows how. Dis doesn't share his opinion.

' _How do you expect this to work, Thorin? Do you not think he will find out? He is still here, if you care to recall.' 'It's a mountain, Dis. You could lose something in it and never find it again. I am certain I will manage to avoid an unwanted meeting. Besides, I have been told he doesn't leave his room much.'_ _'You haven't thought this through, nadad.'_

He'd proven to Dis wrong, but there was no pleasure in it at all. Her objections during their conversation several days prior had been justified. Still, he is not in the mood to gloat over rendering them unnecessary.

“Coming”, Thorin replies.

Dis gives him a once-over before nodding. Her grey eyes – Frerin's eyes – give away no feeling. Thorin knows that look – it is the look of a person hurt so deeply that they temporarily turn to stone so their soul won't bleed out. His sister is granite and rough slate, daughter of the mountain, chiselled out of the cold rock that surrounds them. Her long black hair is streaked with silver and fashioned into an elaborate bun at the base of her neck with braids netting across the sides of her head, save for the two that are hanging loose, framing her face. The beads dangling at their ends glint in the light, sending stabs of pain through Thorin's chest.

He moves away from the tapestry and the names woven into it. Azog may have not managed to break the line of Durin, but he certainly did manage to break Thorin's heart when he severed the threads that would have carried on the name after Thorin.

He approaches Dis, expecting her to turn around and lead the way, but his sister stays put. She reaches out and fastens a pair of dull-grey clasps onto the ends of Thorin's braids, so that they mirror hers. Fili's Birth Rune is engraved on the bead hanging right of Thorin's face, while Kili's is on the left.

“You look pale, brother.”

Thorin can't argue. He hasn't been outside the mountain since they brought him in on a stretcher. It's only been a week but the lack of sunlight in combination with losing a fair amount of blood has done its work. Thorin's skin is pale and waxy, dull. But then again, he supposes he looks rather well for a dead man.

“Might help convince people I am a ghost if anyone who isn't meant to happens to see me.”

“Just what these halls need – more ghosts.” Dis murmurs.

The morning on the other side of the stone walls is bleak, fitting for mid-winter. The room is high up and far out enough in the mountain walls that it has a single window looking down the eastern slope. It is early and the sky still stretches bloodless and pale, the sun not yet out, but the stars already hidden away, tucked away safely on the other side of the world for the time being. Neither here nor there, it is the time between times. It is when they bury their dead – when even time seems to linger on the edges of it all, reluctant to move on.

Dawn has always been Thorin's favourite time of day – the lavishness of it, the abandon with which the sky lit up over the still-slumbering world, wasting its beauty on the dormant, ungrateful life beneath. Dawn always came like a rapture, all wantonness of light and perseverance. And so few ever took the time to appreciate it. But today, he will sacrifice seeing it, and he can't find it in his heart to mourn it. He has already sacrificed so much that a dawn is nothing but a spark added to a pyre, and there is no room left in him for more grief. Thorin finds his sister’s eyes and sees his woe reflected there. She looks like she doesn't even believe in dawns anymore.

In the stale air of one of their childhood hideaways where Thorin is now once again hiding, the last two of the Durin children stand close as they regard each other. One of them will leave the mountain before the next dawn comes, and the other will remain to rule the home that has been retrieved at such a high cost. Dis touches her brow to her brother's.

“You do not have to do this, Dis.” Thorin says, almost in a whisper. Dis moves away and levels him with a stare. It's not as sharp as it used to be – the blade of her sister's temper has been dulled by grief, although her tongue stays as sharp as ever.

“I am burying my sons today, Thorin.” Her voice doesn't break, but the slight widening of her eyes betrays to Thorin the fact that this might just be the first time Dis has admitted this to herself by saying it aloud. She collects herself quickly enough and continues. “I am also burying my brother, as far as the world is concerned. In the eyes of our people, I am the last of the line of Durin. Of course I must do this. I must stay and rule Erebor as much as you had to go on this damned quest. As much as my sons felt they had to follow you.”

There is no accusation in his sister's voice, but Thorin flinches nonetheless. Out of all the things in his life that he feels guilty over, he thinks the guilt over allowing his nephews to come along on the quest might just kill him. Dis may have forgiven him for their deaths, but Thorin knows he will never forgive himself. But Dis is having none of his moral self-flagellation.

“Stop it, nadad. There is no point in casting blame now. You did not kill them. And the one who did is dead now. Not that it changes anything. So just...stop it. There is enough misery as it is.”

Dis moves to the door, gripping the handle of the knob. Her head is bent and her face turned away from Thorin as she says, almost as if she is speaking to herself:

“Sometimes I think the true Durin's bane is not the creature lurking in the dark pits of Khazad-d _û_ m, but this horrible pride of our line that drives us to restlessness. We never did learn how to be at peace with the things we had, did we?”

For the first time since the moment she'd found out about Fili's and Kili's death, Thorin hears tears in Dis' voice. But before he can do anything to comfort her, his sister straightens up, and opens the door and starts down the abandoned corridor towards the burial chamber.

Thorin is left in the desolate silence. He picks up a plain, grey cloak and wraps it around his shoulders, hiding his face beneath the hood. The burial chamber is deep inside the mountain, accessible only through the main pathways that cross the heart of Erebor, but Thorin knows a way that will take him through the forgotten mining shafts and obscure passages. The risk of someone seeing him is relatively low there, but he still walks quietly and keeps to the shadows. No one objected when he said he would come, even though everyone knew the risk of him being discovered. There was never a question about it. He would attend his nephews' burials, even if he has to do it in hiding. And because Mahal or fate or some other higher force seems to have a taste for irony, by attending Fili's and Kili's, Thorin will be attending one other's burial ceremony.

The halls of Erebor are empty as Thorin passes through them on his way to his own funeral.

 

* * *

_A week earlier_

The Eagles come too late, if you ask Thorin. They win, but watching the scene below him from his perch on top of the frozen waterfall atop Ravenhill, he thinks there's never been a less victorious sight in all of Arda.

A trail of scattered bodies stretches from Dale to Erebor's gates, and from the distance, Thorin can't tell how many are orcs and how many Dwarves, Elves, and Men. All blood seems equally dark on the thirsty soil. Snowflakes drift down in a twisted parody of a sheet being pulled over the dead, but no amount of white can bleach the destruction and despair left in the battle's wake. Azog's lifeless body lies on the frozen river, several paces from where Thorin is standing.

Red, red blood is colouring the abused ice around Thorin's feet as it seeps from his shoulder wound. He doesn't feel the pain of it, although he knows it must hurt very much. Still, no pain can match the one in his chest, the crushing agony of his heart being ripped apart by regret and grief. Mere feet away from Thorin, the bodies of his nephews are limp and broken, unmoving. He doesn't know where the rest of his Company is, doesn't know what has become of them. He doesn't know where Bilbo is, either.

Death sits on every perch and rock, slithers along every plane and slope Thorin can see. It seems to be keeping Thorin company. It has been doing so for a while now, he realises. Perhaps it is not really there for the company, perhaps it is simply waiting.

Across from Ravenhill, Erebor stands as it always did, and in that moment Thorin can't find that love for the Mountain that had set him on this journey. He can't rejoice in having won it back when the Mountain stands while so many of the ones Thorin loves lie fallen. But Erebor is easier to look at than Fili and Kili or the carnage below, so Thorin keeps his eyes on his doomed kingdom, even as his vision begins to blur. He loses consciousness just as the first beats of heavy-booted feet sound across the ice, just in time to hear the first shouts of his name carried on the wind. Dwalin, yes, and perhaps Gloin. He can't tell properly who is shouting for him, but then the darkness takes him and Thorin is left uncaring and oblivious to the world.

When he wakes again, he is in the gloomy half-light of the infirmary, with Ori bent over his shoulder, shouting orders at someone to bring more bandages. The commotion around him is a blur as he struggles to focus his eyes.

“Welcome back, lad. Stay still, if you would.” Oin greets him. Thorin does his best not to writhe as his senses return to him and the aching floods his body. In the corner, he notices Dwalin, still bloody and dirty from the battle, standing with his hands crossed over his chest. Noticing that Thorin is awake, Dwalin approaches the cot on which they had settled the King, close enough so Thorin can see the cuts that litter his friend's arms and face, but not so near that he would be in the healers' way.

Dwalin's face is as guarded as it can be while at the same time being clouded by pain Thorin knows is not of the body. The look makes Thorin need to know. He tries to speak, but his tongue is too heavy, clumsy in his mouth, and he only manages to gurgle out the words 'the others' in a questioning tone. Luckily, Dwalin seems to understand him anyway, and he recites a hurried report the way a warrior would to his general.

“Alive, the lot of them. A bit banged up, but nothing that won't heal. Our Master Burglar got knocked over the head, though. They tell me he's still out of it.”

Dwalin doesn't mention Fili or Kili, and for a moment Thorin feels just sheer relief. Bilbo is alive. But then Oin tightens his hold on Thorin's shoulder and the pain that shoots through his arm brings reality crashing in. Thorin grits his teeth against the pain. The last thing he feels before he passes out again is disgust at himself. He does not deserve the relief.

And yet, he can't help himself but feel just that much lighter for knowing Bilbo is alive. Just as he can't help hating himself for being able to feel anything beyond the pain.

The next time he comes round, it's night time and Thorin is much more lucid. His shoulder throbs, but his head is clear. Dwalin is seated in a chair next to Thorin's sickbed. He seems to have nodded off, but the moment Thorin stirs, Dwalin's eyes snap open as he leans over in the chair.

“Don't go pulling at those stitches. Oin will have your braids for it.”

“Water...” Thorin croaks and Dwalin shoves a cup into the hand of his unharmed arm. Thorin gulps greedily, the water smooth like mithril against his raw, parched throat, but tasting too sweet, the way water always does after mid-day naps or sickness. When he is done drinking, he hands the cup back to Dwalin and settles back against the pillows propped behind his back.

The room is dimly-lit and feels overly warm, but Thorin doesn't feel feverish, so he hopes he managed to avoid contracting an infection. There are bandages criss-crossing across his naked chest and arm, but where bare skin peeks through Thorin sees someone's given him a good scrubbing, removing all remaining grit and filth of the battle.

“How bad?” he asks Dwalin. Even Thorin is not entirely sure if he is asking about the extent of damage done to his body or about the havoc wreaked on their armies and home. Dwalin answers both.

“Luck smiled on you with that”, he says, motioning towards Thorin's shoulder. “Oin says that filth Azog missed the bone. It will be sore for a while, aye, but you'll live. Lost a lot of blood, though, so you are on bed rest for the next coupla' days.”

His friend's tone is too light. Fake. It only makes Thorin fear what next words are to come.

“Gloin's got a nasty cut on his leg, and Nori's ribs are all bruised and battered. I think he's more in pain from Dori treating him like a dwarfling b'cause of it all. Hurt pride hurts worse than bones. Balin is limping, but the stubborn old ram won't admit it's anything serious. The rest of the lads are all black and blue, but they'll keep. Master Baggins is still to wake up, but Oin isn't overly worried.”

Dwalin carefully avoids speaking of Fili and Kili, Thorin notices. Somewhere in his state of muddled dreaming, he had hoped their fates were just a grueling nightmare. Dwalin's avoidance only sends a sharp, piercing feeling that is not quite simple disappointment, nor just pain, shooting through Thorin. It is like they are being taken away from him all over again, each minute he breathes, on, and on, and on.

He looks over at Dwalin, only to find the other Dwarf already watching him. In Thorin's eyes there is one last plea to be proven wrong, one last favour he has no right to ask – for Dwalin to tell him that his mind is playing tricks on him and that his heirs are in their rooms right now, planning mischief. But the almost imperceptible shake of Dwalin's head and the burning sorrow in his friend's eyes crushes the last of Thorin's foolish hopes, and in that moment he _hates_ his friend with a vicious passion. It is visceral, this hate, a howl of a wounded animal reacting on instinct, but it flickers after a moment, and then shifts, until Thorin realises it is not Dwalin whom he hates, but his own reflection in Dwalin's eyes.

Thorin sees a person who is not Dwalin's King. A Dwarf Balin would not look upon and think ' _there is one I could follow'_. Thorin sees the mad tyrant who cast away all that was truly precious for the shine of gold and jewels, and the broken shadow that lead his kin into death. The Elvenking's brat had it right, back in Mirkwood – there truly _is_ no King Under the Mountain.

It is then, in the infirmary, not a day after the battle, looking at his oldest friend, that Thorin decides. What happens next only cements his decision.

“You've got a visitor” Dwalin says, if only to break the silence. He knows Thorin well enough to know that speaking of Fili and Kili would bring no relief. To put them into words would be as cruel as it would be inadequate. To speak of them now would be salt on an open wound. And Mahal knows they've paid their debt in salt. Life is cheap, Thorin said in the depth of his sickness, but Dwalin knows better. He knows life was anything but cheap. It is paid for in one of the great riches of the past, before gold and coin took over. They paid with the salty sweat on their brows and the salty iron of their blood on the battlefield. Even now, they are paying. Salty tears like family heirlooms being traded for crumbs and trinkets. A desperate trade that brings no solace. In the past, salt was white gold, the rich that preserved food and health alike. No wonder it is the price of life – it is what preserves hearts and souls from rotting.

“I do not wish to see visitors” Thorin replies. His voice grates against the quiet of the room like bodies dragged over rubble. But Dwalin ignores his protest and moves to the door.

“You'll wish to see this one.” He opens the door, nodding to whomever is on the other side.

For a crazy moment Thorin thinks – hopes, wishes – it is Bilbo. But the face that meets him is one he had last seen over a year ago, when he left and took that most precious to its owner with the promise of safe-keeping. A promise he has failed to uphold.

Dis' face is lined with anguish as she approaches Thorin's cot, and all Thorin has to offer as comfort are broken bones and broken promises.

“Namad...”

His sister doesn't speak, her thin lips pressed together savagely, her face pale beneath the black dusting of her sideburns and beard. Dis looks torn between anger and relief, love and such utter grief, that Thorin wishes she would just throw punches. It would hurt less than seeing her like this. What happens instead cuts deeper than Azog's blade.

Dis hugs Thorin as if he is the last line of mithril in Moria, as if he did not just lead her sons to their death. His sister hugs him tightly and cries. She cries like the winds do, wildly. Dis cries the way only mothers know how to. Thorin won't see her cry again after that night – not for years.

They do not speak for a long time, until, in the end, Dis regains her composure and looks at Thorin.

“I am very glad to find you alive, nadad”, she says, her voice like a broken bell chiming off-tune.

“Dis...” Thorin tries, but Dis silences him by raising her hand.

“I am so very glad you are alive, but I can't do this tonight. I had to see you, but we cannot speak. Not tonight. Not yet.”

She doesn't have to say why, say ' _because they're dead, Thorin, and as much as you are my brother, they were my life'_ , because Thorin knows. Just as they both know he'd trade places with them in a heartbeat. And he can't blame Dis for knowing that she'd probably let him. He let her down. He let them all down.

“Rest, sister. We will speak in the morning”, he says instead, swallowing down the shards of his own heart. He has business to attend to, anyway.

He watches his sister lean in to press her brow against his own and is glad she turns away after that and leaves, for he does not want her to see his tears. If she did, Dis would try to comfort him, and he is not worthy of her comfort.

His wallowing is cut short by Dwalin's return.

“When did she arrive?” Thorin asks.

“With the caravan that set out from the Iron Hills just behind Dain's troops. She was there on business at the time and insisted on coming along. They were told to lag behind in case the battle went awry. The last cart arrived only hours ago.”

“Has word been sent to Ered Luin?”

“Ravens have been dispatched.”

Thorin nods.

“I need you to find your brother and Ori”, he says.

“Why?”

“Because there is a proclamation of death to be written.”

Dwalin frowns.

“Whose?”

“Mine.”

Death gets its fill, in the end. Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain dies that day, somewhere between the barren battlefield and the half-lit rooms of his lost kingdom. Thorin _Oakenshield_ survives, barely, and finds himself to be a ruin, much like Erebor – a once mighty thing ravaged by dragon's lust.

 

* * *

_Present day_

The burial chamber is vast, cold, and magnificent in a way everything in Erebor appears to be. Two stone figures stand in the deep shaft, holding the dead in the palms of their hands, encased in solid stone tombs on a stone disk that stretches across the chasm beneath. The walls of the cave are lined with galleries that are slowly filling with dwarves. This deep inside the mountain, the quiet is complete and impenetrable. The sounds of life being slowly restored throughout the kingdom seem a word away.

Warm flames flicker in the cave-like space, but they are too few and far in-between to illuminate the darkness properly. Instead, they only cast twitchy shadows across the faces of the stone statues and the living dwarves in the galleries. It is impressive, no doubt, the way that the whole place is painted in sharp contrasting lines of light and shadow. It is imposing and slightly daunting. Very fitting to be the last resting place of a King and his heirs.

There is no gold here, no avalanches of precious metals and stones. There is nothing gleaming and shining about death. Nothing precious about it at all. The only stone is the plain one, the stone of the mountain, and the smaller, darker ones held in the hands of the Company, Dis, Dain, and a hobbit from the Shire, who stand gathered around the three tombs on the platform.

Smooth and round, the runestone is warm where it touches the dry, cracked skin of Bilbo's palm. There are two more in his pockets – one for Fili and one for Kili. The two stones in his pockets each have a symbol carved into them, but the one in Bilbo's hand remains silent. He is standing in line with the Company, with Bofur on his right and Ori on his left. He alternates between gazing unseeingly at the balconies filled with indiscernible faces and looking at the empty stone in his hand. He'd thought long and hard what to carve into it, but came up short. Apart from the fact that he didn't actually speak or write Khuzdul, even if he did, Bilbo could not think of a word that he could translate. Dis informed him that tradition dictated that those close to the deceased lay engraved runestones on the grave during the ceremony. The word on the stone should mark what the late was to them, and serve to help the spirit of the dead remember who they are as it travels to the Halls of their Forefathers.

It was a sacred tradition, and Bilbo wanted to honour it. But like everything else, he wanted to do it his way. That way, it would mean something. So, for Fili's and Kili's stones he did not pick out words. He would never intrude on the sanctity of the Dwarven language, and words in Common just sounded and looked flat and empty. Instead, Bilbo took Fili's stone and carved an image of an edelweiss into it. For Kili there was crocus.He wanted to remember them before the armours and the swords – the young Dwarves who'd lost their ponies and driven them all mad from time to time. They used to laugh so much.

That left the third stone. So. What was Thorin to Bilbo?

Bilbo may be an occasional writer, a narrator, but he doubts that even the library of Erebor has enough words to answer that particular question. He doubts it holds the one word he can't seem to find. He could carve an entire garden and still, it would not do. And so the runestone remains empty and unmarked. Unlike Bilbo's heart.

The emptiness in Bilbo has long been replaced by some amalgam heaviness. He can't pin-point it, really. It feels black like a smithy's anvil, like whatever word he can't seem to find is trapped inside of him, carved into a lost runestone that presses against Bilbo's lungs.

Lost in his musings, Bilbo barely notices the hush that has fallen over the chamber. Even the distant shuffling and sounds of whispers and breathing have died out. The utter stillness only contributes to the air of death that lingers all around. All eyes are set on Dain, who steps out in front of the three tombs, facing the galleries, and starts to recite something in Khuzdul. Bilbo catches names such as 'Azog' and 'Azanulbizar' and concludes that Dain is probably listing Thorin's, Fili's, and Kili's achievements in battle.

Bilbo is certain these things matter to the Dwarves very much, but he doesn't think they will take offence if he does not. That is not how he wishes to remember them. In his mind's eye, he is looking at the smiling faces of Fili and Kili as they mocked him because of his pony allergies and funny ears, at Thorin's face soft with a smile neither of them had expected, on top of the Carrock. Bilbo lets Dain's words wash over him like some distant buzzing of bees and tries to understand how any of this is meant to bring closure or peace. How it is meant to help anyone move on with their lives. It is a pretty lie. His chance at life died with Thorin. He doubts he will ever forget the moment it did.

The bodies of Fili and Kili had been placed in the stone coffins not long after being retrieved from the battlefield, as soon as all the preparations were through. But the ceremony itself was to take place when Thorin recovered and was able to attend. Needless to say, those plans got altered.

From what he's been told, Bilbo woke up two days too late to see Thorin still alive and a single day too late to even be able to see his body. That last part could easily be a small mercy. Bilbo can't decide. They had burried him the second morning after the battle.

It all looks so very cold to Bilbo, this laying of the dead in the stone. There is no softness of the earth, no warmth of grass growing over the burial mounds as time passes. But, as it has been explained to him, Dwarves do not leave their dead to the earth. If they must, they give them to fire, the way they did after Azanulbizar, but whenever possibly, Dwarves return their dead to the stone that sings to them. Bilbo wonders if the dead still hear it sing to them. If it makes things easier for them. Because it certainly isn't making it easier for those left behind.

Around him, the Company starts moving. One by one, the members leave their runestones on the edges of the tombs, surrounding the stone figures adorning the lids that depict the ones beneath. Dis goes first, moves from Fili's tomb on the right, to Kili's on the left, and then to the middle one, laying a black stone for her brother. She hadn't been able to do this for Frerin, Bilbo had learned.

Dain is next, then Dwalin, Balin, and the others. Bilbo stands paralysed and watches. When it is his turn, he walks to the closest tomb – Kili's – and takes the right runestone out of his pocket. It clanks against something metallic – the ring – but Bilbo pays no attention to it as he places the stone on the lid. He looks at the carved face – masterfully done, with a painful likeness to the real one – because that's all he has now, of all of them. Looking at Fili's grave is no easier, and Bilbo tears himself away after a few moments.

He doesn't look at Thorin's figure carved in stone. He lays his empty stone, oblivious to the surprised look on Dain's face and the murmurs of the Dwarves who are close enough to the platform to see the stones clearly. He should move, Bilbo knows. If he doesn't then he _will_ look and he will never look away again. And he doesn't want his last memory of Thorin's face to be that atop his tomb, a cold, grey twin of a face that was never meant for stone. There was completely too much life and love and anger and all sorts of things in Thorin Oakenshield for his face to ever be as expressionless as the one currently staring at Bilbo from Thorin's coffin.

So Bilbo doesn't look. He walks away and out of the chamber, vaguely aware of the stares following him. He doesn't care. He can't stay in that place one moment longer. There are no tears in his eyes. Bilbo doubts there are any tears in him left. He'd done his share of weeping. One weeps after the dead, but not for them. The tragedy of their death is not theirs. One weeps after the dead, but _for_ the living. Theirs is the pain that remains. And Bilbo will weep, someday, for the living – for Dis, for Erebor, for himself.

Today he shall not weep. Today he shall mourn the dead, and that is a sorrow too deep for tears. It swallows them up, dries out the soul.

* * *

In a small alcove cleverly hidden by a hand-carven formation of rock, one level above the platform holding the coffins, Thorin watches his sister, cousin, and friends lay small black stones around the perimeter of the stone lids. He sees Dis take out an extra stone out of her pocket for each of her sons. It was Thorin's request that she placed stones from his as well. No one would think twice of it - everyone would just assume that she is placing stones in Vili's name as well.

It hurts, but Thorin steels himself and watches.

Nothing can ever bring his nephews back from Mahal's Halls and, despite the acute awareness of their deaths that's been haunting Thorin since the moment he saw them fall, it is not until the moment he is engulfed in the silence of the burial chamber that it strikes him that he will never again hear their teasing voices. Never again shall Fili's clever quips and Kili's untameable laughter ring around the table at meal-time. Thorin would suffer their pranks a thousand lives over if it meant he could have them back. Their deaths are so much more than just the giving-up of their bodies, Thorin realises. Hollow silences and burn-holes in the fabric of life where little details used to be don't fade the way bodies do. The utter _lacking_ of so many things is something that can never be repaired. Loving the dead is like shouting into the void.

One by one, the Company come to Thorin's tomb, as well. It is odd to see his friends go through the charade of placing the stones on his own empty grave. Not all of them had taken well to Thorin's decision, of course. Dwalin had yelled up a storm, as was to be expected. At first he refused to even get Balin and Ori, let alone listen to Thorin's plan. Luckily, Thorin did not depend entirely on Dwalin's good will to have someone summoned, so Balin and Ori were brought in regardless of his friend's adamant protests.

Down below, Bilbo steps out of the shadows and moves to Fili's and Kili's graves. Thorin can barely distinguish the odd patterns on their stones, but they appear to be flowers. He never got the chance to ask Bilbo about the flowers. And about a great deal of other things, too. Or maybe he had his chances and simply let them wither away. He wonders if the flowers have meanings – surely they do – and which one has Bilbo chosen for him.

Dwalin's words from the night he'd told him of his decision come back to Thorin, unwanted intruders calling him a fool. He waves them away like flies, eyes glued to Bilbo. He looks ancient under the muted light of the burial chamber. Thorin's heart jolts painfully in his chest. He knows who is to blame for the sorrow-lines on Bilbo's face. Watching them deepen is part of Thorin's punishment.

But there is only so much ache that a soul can bear, so it is when Bilbo moves to Thorin's grave that Thorin closes his eyes and lets the memories wash over him and drown out the view of Bilbo placing an empty stone on an empty tomb.

 

* * *

_A week ago_

“Mahal, maybe Oin forgot to check our King's head, because that's the only thing that would explain this pish-posh!”

Balin shoots his brother a stern look, but it does little to reel in Dwalin, who is pacing around the infirmary, eyes spewing daggers at Thorin.

“Calm down, brother, and do not forget yourself.” He turns back to Thorin on the cot. “If you wouldn't mind, explaining once more. This time there will be no interruptions.” Balin adds, giving Dwalin another meaningful look. Dwalin just glowers before moving to sulk in a shadowed corner.

“I wish for you and Ori to write a proclamation declaring me dead”, Thorin says. “And I wish you do it the morning after this one.”

“You do not look dead to me, my King, and I am pretty sure you'll keep till morning.” Balin smiles mildly, but Thorin raises his hand to stop him.

“I am not your King, Balin. And that is why I must ask you to do this. I cannot be King Under the mountain. Not after all that's happened.”

The pained understanding in Balin's eyes tells Thorin that no more explanations are necessary, so he proceeds to the technicalities of it all. If there are more reasons behind Thorin's decision than those spoken, Balin knows better than to ask of Thorin what Thorin is not yet ready to confess. In his corner, Dwalin starts to pace like a caged warg.

“Oin says I will be well enough to be moved by tomorrow”, Thorin continues. “I will secure a room for myself in one of the distant parts of the Mountain. There are rooms in this kingdom which have not been used since before Smaug came, so no one will find me there. I will stay shortly, only until I gather everything I need for my travels.”

That is not the real reason Thorin intends to stay at Erebor after his death, however shortly, but no one questions it. The topic of Fili and Kili is still too sore a wound.

“Dain will be crowned King. He will be a good one.”

“Have you ever considered that Dain might not want to be King?”, a voice comes from the door. Thorin hadn't heard Dis come back.

“Dis...I thought you were resting.”

“How can one rest in these cold Halls?” his sister replies. “But that is beside the point. Dain does not wish to be king here.”

Thorin frowns.

“Why in Mahal's name would he not want to be King?”

Balin sighs. “Dain's got his own kingdom in the Iron Hills. They are prospering, doing well. He can't just uproot his people.”

“But this is Erebor!” Thorin says, as if that explains it all.

“Erebor has always been your dream, Thorin. Not Dain's.” Dis explains.

“Still, surely we should speak to Dain, ask his opinion.”

“We have.” Dwalin cuts in. “When you were out of it, and we didn't know what would become of you, Dain found us.”

“And?”

“He doesn't wish to be King Under the Mountain, Thorin!” Dwalin retorts. “He does not want to rule over _your_ birthright.”

The tense silence that follows crackles and sizzles as Dwalin stares defiantly at his King and Thorin strives maniacally to find a solution. He had not foreseen this possibility. He'd always assumed that anyone would be _grateful_ to rule Erebor. But Balin is right. It has always been Thorin's dream, and not his cousin's. The dream of Durin's line back in the Lonely Mountain. And what is left of the Durin's line now? Only he and...Oh.

Thorin whips his head to look at Dis.

“There is someone else here who has the right to the throne of Erebor.”

His sister's eyes are unbearable, so he looks at Balin and can see the realisation dawning in the elderly Dwarf's eyes.

“Aye. There is.”

Dwalin is the next to catch up as his eyes snap to Dis. The Princess of Erebor stays quiet for the whole duration of this realisation taking place, but she looks straight into her brother's eyes as she says:

“Yes. There is.”

Thorin nods. Women on the throne are an exception more than a rule, but not a case without precedence. And his sister has already acted as the leader of their people in Thorin's absence. She would make a good queen.

Dis doesn't ask Thorin for his reasons. She will, he knows, but not now. Perhaps she has guessed them already. It is unfair and he has no right to ask. But he will. He has no choice.

“Balin, draw up the papers.” Dis speaks without looking away from Thorin.

“Aye.”

Dis nods once and turns to leave. The Halls may be cold and empty, but Thorin knows that sometimes it is easier to walk among ghosts than to face the living. And his sister has many ghosts to keep her company now.

Dwalin seems even more frustrated than before, obviously irked that his attempts at stopping Thorin failed, but Balin looks thoughtful. He addresses Thorin again.

“You could abdicate. It has been done before, lad. Not often, aye, I'll give you that, but it's not unheard of. You don't have to do this. You have a choice, Thorin.” Balin's eyes are imploring as he echoes the words voiced so long ago in Bag End, when their quest was just beginning. But, just like back then, Thorin shakes his head and gives the same answer.

“There is no choice, Balin. Not for me.”

Balin looks at him sadly, but doesn't get a chance to speak before another voice quips up. Thorin almost forgot Ori is in the room. Between Dwalin's glowering presence and Balin's begging eyes, the young scribe slipped Thorin's mind.

“Why?”

Even Dwalin stops his furious pacing to hear the answer. Ori's words carry no judgement or expectation. He genuinely doesn't seem to understand.

“If I stay, then what does that make me?” Thorin replies calmly. He is too tired for rage or bitterness. “A King with no heirs who rejected his duty towards his people. What am I to do? My craft? Am I to stay on as Dain's advisor? What advice or wisdom do I have to give that I could not have dealt by my own hand from the throne? Do I go back to being Thorin Oakenshield? He has no place in Erebor – he is the child of roads and exile, dragon fire and necessity. Trees don't grow within the mountain, Ori. Not even oaks. And nobody looks for the dead amongst the living, so this way I will be able to travel, find work perhaps, without being recognised. No one will expect to see a dead Dwarven Prince walking their streets.”

Thorin's words are mild, but the more he speaks, the angrier Ori seems to be getting.

“This all rests on the silly idea that you should not be king! And I do not understand that, either.”

Oh, the stubbornness of Dwarves, Thorin thinks. Oh, the loyalty of them.

“And neither would the Dwarves of Erebor. Which is why I can't stay. And I can't be King, either. Not when the gold corrupts my mind. Am I to stand as King of the grieving families of the fallen? Because their sons and daughters fell because of my foolish greed, Ori. I would not ask any parent to forgive that.”

“Their sons and daughters fell for Erebor, like any honourable dwarrow would!” Dwalin bellows, obviously unable to contain himself any longer. Thorin remembers his friend pleading with him in the throne room, telling him that he has changed. Obviously Dwalin gave pleading up in favour of sheer anger. Something dangerous glints in Dwalin's eye, and if Thorin didn't know him better, he would call it cruelty.

“I never thought my King was a coward”, he says, and Thorin knows it's a taunt, an attempt to get a rise out of Thorin. A few days ago, that's precisely what would have happened. But not now.

“Balin, Ori, could you leave us.” It's a whisper short of an order. The two dwarves leave, exchanging uneasy glances. The soft click of the door closing is loud in the dead silence of the room. Dwalin refuses to meet Thorin's eyes, but speaks before Thorin can implore him to see the reasons behind this decision.

“Whom will you tell?” Dwalin asks tersely.

“Dain. The Company. They deserve the truth. And Gandalf. Mahal knows he will find out either way and I'd rather not have him meddling. No one else can know.”

Dwalin fiddles with the loose end of bandage wrapping on his forearm, still not looking at Thorin. At least he's not yelling anymore, but Thorin knows that this could quite possibly mean things are even worse. A yelling Dwalin is a relatively common sight, dangerous but not overly. A quiet Dwalin is a bigger reason for worry.

“You do know our Burglar will have something to say about this...”

Thorin interrupts him, shaking his head.

“Bilbo can't know.”

“You can't be serious...” A smile of disbelief reveals Dwalin's teeth but disappears as soon as he realises Thorin is in earnest. “Thorin...”

“He mustn't know. You can't tell him, Dwalin.” Thorin looks expectantly at his friend, waiting for a sign of agreement. “You can't tell him, understood?”

Dwalin looks as incredulous as he does shell-shocked. But he complies, nonetheless.

“Aye.”

Thorin nods. He knows Dwalin would never go back on his word.

“Why?” Dwalin asks, confusion clear in his eyes. Thorin remains silent for a moment or two, obviously weighing words. When he speaks he sounds nothing like the Thorin who held the passionate speech in Bag End.

“Because if he did, I would ask for his forgiveness. And he would give it.”

Dwalin throws up his hands in frustration. “Ach, what is the problem, then?”

“That is the problem.”

“Thorin...”

“I do not deserve his forgiveness!” Thorin snaps, and Dwalin is almost glad that he does if it means that he will just stop being this shadow that Dwalin's been spending time with recently. “And if I were to reveal myself to him, I would not have the strength not to ask it of him.”

Something seems to crumble within Dwalin, the shaky scaffolding that supports his anger losing balance.

“You were not yourself, Thorin”, he says and his voice is broken. “You weren't in your right mind.”

“That does not alter what I did.”

“This is not what he would want, Thorin.” Dwalin shakes his head. “What is this that you're doing? Is it penance? Because you've paid your debts, tenfold o'er! Do you think you're protecting him?”

Thorin refuses to meet his friend's eyes, but the silence is answer enough for Dwalin.

“Oh Mahal, you do. You honestly do.”

For the first time since Thorin woke up, there is something in Dwalin's voice that makes him flinch. The yelling and the glowering do not touch him, and neither does the thunderous silence, but now Dwalin sounds _disappointed._ Thorin looks up to find the other Dwarf looking at him as if he were a stranger in stolen skin.

“I always knew you could be foolish”, Dwalin says, and he is no longer yelling. His voice is eerily calm. “But I never thought you were truly a fool.”

“Dwalin...”

But Dwalin is out of the door before Thorin can get a word edge-wise. Thorin sighs and sinks deeper into the thin layers of the cot. He doesn't sleep much that night, but when he does, he dreams of burning trees. They look like oaks.

The next day, Dain is the first to find out. Thorin tells him personally and his cousin seems to understand, or at least respect Thorin's decision enough not to question it too much. He calls him a foolish sod, but agrees Dis will make a good Queen. The meeting passes easier than Thorin thought it would, and he is grateful, because his next one drains him completely.

After Dain leaves, the remaining nine Dwarves of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield (Dwalin doesn't grace them with his presence) all gather in the infirmary, crowding in the limited space of the room. No one interrupts Thorin as he tells them of his plan and no one knows quite what to say afterwards. Bofur looks equal parts mutinous and heartbroken, while Bifur just mumbles his disapproval in low Khuzdul. Bombur's eyes are saucer-big and glossy. Oin and Gloin look like they could easily sprain their faces from frowning so hard, and Dori is doing his best to give them competition on that front. Nori's face is carefully blank – but then again, Nori's face is almost always carefully blank, unless he's grinning and taunting. Lastly, Ori stands on the fringe of the line-up. He'd heard it all the night before, so Thorin's plan is no news to him. But the anger from last night hasn't died away, it would seem. Ori's eyes are fierce with something akin to determination – to do what, Thorin can't even begin to guess – something that wasn't there a year ago. This is not the timid dwarf who followed his brothers on Thorin's quest. These are the eyes of someone who survived a journey and a battle the likes of which most never even dream of.

“Where will you go?” Bofur asks and Throin can't tell him, because he doesn't know. He's used to the life on the road. He's been a wanderer more than he's ever been a king.

Balin is standing next to Thorin's bed with a scroll of parchment and a bottle of ink, preparing a quill. He and Ori had agreed to act as witnesses, but they need Oin's signature as chief healer, too.

All three sign, and with much less ink on parchment than there was blood on the battlefield, Thorin II of Durin's line is dead.

 

* * *

_Present day_

“Do you know, the first time we met he was awfully rude to me, your brother.” Bilbo voice borders on sulking, but the fondness in it is unmistakable. Dis smiles gently.

The funeral is over and they are in Dis's rooms, a tea service made out of the purest silver sitting between them on a rackety table.

“Yes, that does sound like Thorin.”

“It does, doesn't it?” Bilbo asks, but it's rhetorical. Suddenly, a short bark of laughter erupts from him, startling the both of them. “Eru, he was insufferable! He called me a grocer! For the first half of our journey he was just brooding about like a majestic thundercloud! Ridiculous dwarf.”

By the end of his little speech, Bilbo is shaking his head, smiling at some memory Dis isn't privy to. It's the first time Dis has seen him smile since her arrival at Erebor. It is a wonderful smile, if a bit sad, and she wonders what strength Thorin must possess to be able to give up every chance of ever seeing it again. When Bilbo speaks of Thorin, he smiles the way first snowdrops break through the frosty ground.

“Oh, he would make me so mad sometimes. Downright livid”, he says, but it is with such softness that he does so, such longing, that Dis suspects it is not anger the hobbit is recalling.

“Was he always like that?” Bilbo asks her, snapping out of his reverie.

“Maddening?” Dis retorts, only half-jokingly, which earns her a snort from her companion.

“Stubborn. Short-tempered”, Bilbo says. ' _Like a summer_ storm' he thinks. He has always liked summer storms.

“Oh yes. I'm afraid we are... _were_ rather alike in that respect. Trust Thorin to be more obstinate than the rocks around him. I swear to Mahal, sometimes I thought he could challenge a mountain to a staring contest and win. I've only ever known one person more stubborn than him.”

“I can hardly believe that. And who would that be, pray tell?”

“Me”, Dis answers simply, something akin to pride colouring her voice. “But if you are asking if my brother was always as...burdened as he was at the time you've met him, then the answer is no. When we were children, he'd always been the more serious one -being the eldest, you see – but he was also mischievous, and bright, and loving. He used to laugh much more, as well.”

“That sounds like Thorin, too.” Bilbo says tenderly.

“Does it?” Dis sounds surprised, as if she can't believe Bilbo could see Thorin as anything more than the brooding King he'd been in his last days, or the tough warrior who travelled with him.

“Yes, it does”, Bilbo nods, but leaves it at that. His eyes betray his wandering mind, and his expression is so sad that Dis is almost tempted to tell him the truth. She doesn't, of course. There are some secrets that are not hers to tell. “Will you tell me about him?”

As if Dis could refuse.

“What do you wish to know, Master Baggins?”

Bilbo fiddles with his teacup.

“It's Bilbo, please. I'd like to know what he was like before. In Ered Luin, and in Erebor, before Smaug came.”

Dis takes a bit of time to think – after all, it is a lifetime Bilbo is asking her to tell. In the end she decides to tell him her favourite bits.

“I have only seen my brother on the verge of panic once”, she says. Bilbo looks at her questioningly. Dis smiles. “It was the day Fili was born and he held him for the first time. Thorin looked ready to faint. He fared a little bit better by the time Kili arrived, but not by much.”

Bilbo laughs again, and looks almost startled by it.

“They adored him”, he says.

“Aye, they did. And he adored them. When they were little, he used to play with them almost every day. Between him and Vili, I was always the one who had to tell Fili and Kili ‘no’ all the time. They hated me for it, I am certain, but left to my brother and husband, my sons would have probably run around nude with their first words being 'nasty tree-shaggers'. They had them wrapped around their little braids since the days they were born.”

Oh, it hurts to speak of them, but the pain is that of a wound being cleaned – biting but necessary for healing – so Dis continues.

“When Vili died, Fili grew up faster than he was meant to. Thorin did his best to step in, but my son always had a strong sense of duty. Still, those days when Thorin had him practising with him, Fili would seem better, less grim. Of course, the fact that Thorin squealed like Dain's battle-boar that time Fili and Kili left a rattlesnake on his pillow certainly helped to make them smile.” Dis's tone is fond. “Thorin had his revenge – he pretended he couldn't see or hear them for three whole days. Nearly convinced Kili they were both truly invisible. It was ridiculous.”

Bilbo listens carefully, storing away every word and borrowed image. He is smiling, only because these are memories that should not be tainted by tears. Dis speaks and speaks – of the time when Thorin accidentally singed Frerin's hair, and the time they learned how to swim and how Thorin looked like a sheepdog trying not to drown. She speaks her throat raw but it doesn't matter. They all feel a bit less dead this way. Finally, Dis's stories stop and the air is full of memories. They're not quite ghosts, not as sorrowful. Just distant and untouchable.

“You know, sometimes I think I hate him.” Bilbo speaks up suddenly. Dis frowns.

“For what he did to you on the battlements?” Of course she knows about that. She badgered Thorin into telling her. She wouldn't blame Bilbo if he hated Thorin for it, but she still hopes he doesn't. Bilbo shakes his head.

“No. That's not why.” The look he gives Dis is that of someone lost very far from home. “Sometimes I think I hate him for dying.” Bilbo shakes his head again, smiling ruefully at himself, as if he is being silly. “But I don't, do I?”

Dis can only shake her head.

“Hm. Didn't think so. I think hate would have been easier than this.” Bilbo sets his cup back on the saucer and stands up. “Thank you for the tea, Your Majesty.”

“Dis, please.”

“Very well, Dis.”

Bilbo nods goodbye and starts walking towards the door. He looks so heartbroken Dis is tempted to tell him everything and take him to Thorin that instant. She doesn't, of course. Some secrets are not hers to tell, and some redemptions, however unnecessary they might seem to the looking eyes of others, are needed regardless. So, she does the best she can without overstepping her boundaries.

“My brother was not an easy Dwarf to stomach, Master Baggins.” Bilbo freezes with his hand on the door, but does not turn around. Dis understands, so she continues. “But if there is something I know of him, it is that Thorin didn't know how to do anything by halves. That's why he could never rest without trying to reclaim Erebor. We had a good enough life in Ered Luin. But good enough was never enough for Thorin. That's why the gold got to him, but this trait of his also made him the warrior he was, the uncle who would have lain his life down for his nephews if they hadn't beat him to it, and the stubborn Dwarf who won us back our home.

I know you haven't had the chance to see him before his passing, but never doubt my brother's loyalty to you. Or his affection. Thorin's tendency to love with all his might have been his downfall in the end, but he was not a lesser Dwarf for it.”

Dis can't see Bilbo's face, but from the whiteness of the hobbit's knuckles where they are gripping the knob on the door, she knows her words struck a cord.

“Thank you”, is all that Bilbo says before he leaves the room, and Dis is not really sure what she is being thanked for.

“You're welcome”, she says anyway, to the now-closed door. She feels drained and tired and old beyond ages. And it's not even noon yet.

 

* * *

“He is grieving, Balin. He hasn't thought this through, not with a clear mind. He is blinded by his loss and his pain.”

Balin looks at Dis, who is staring into her cup. She'd come to him after Bilbo's visit, twitchy and troubled.

“Everybody mourns in their own way, Dis.”

“Don't you think I know that? Don't speak to me of mourning and grief.”

“Aye, I know you do. But Thorin's loss is his own. He is giving up as much as was already taken from him. Maybe even more.”

“He doesn't have to.”

“That's not how he sees it.”

“My brother always fancied the stubborn belief that he must always take the hardest path.”

“Life has rarely given him a choice of an easier one.” Balin's words are gentle, his eyes soft and infinitely sad. “You are mourning the dead, Dis. We all are, Thorin too. But he has lost some who are still among us. It is a different sort of ache, to mourn the living.”

Dis sighs and sinks down into the nearest chair.

“He is tormenting himself, and pointlessly so, iraknadad. He is punishing himself.” She absent-mindedly twirls a beaded braid around her finger. “When I lost Vili, I thought there was no greater pain in this world. I was wrong, I see that now, but still, I wouldn't wish that fate on the worst of enemies, and yet my brother seems intent on living without his One as if he were dead.” Dis's eyes are ablaze now, the first spark of life Balin has seen in them since she'd arrived to find the destruction wreaked in the battle making her face fierce. He is not surprised by Dis's regard of what Bilbo means to her brother. Dis is clever and observant, and a lesser Dwarf would have noticed the way Thorin seemes only half-alive now that he is keeping himself away from Bilbo.

“No matter what crime Thorin thinks he has committed, it does not warrant such harsh a penance”, Dis finishes. Balin tilts his head as he looks at her. She and Thorin are so very alike. Full of fire and stone.

“Have you tried talking to Thorin about this?”

Dis's levelled look tells Balin just how absurd the future Queen Under the Mountain finds his suggestion.

“Have you ever known anyone who succeeded in changing Thorin Oakenshield's mind once he'd made it up?”

“Aye, I know two people who have managed that particular task”, Balin replies. Dis snorts.

“I'd like to meet them and ask them to tell me their secret.”

“You've met them both, as a matter of fact, my Queen.”

Dis tilts her head, her sharp eyes – Thorin's eyes by expression, only harder; Frerin's by colour, but older – flitting over her Advisor's face.

“Bilbo”, she concludes. It's not a question, but Balin nods anyway.

“And the other one?” Dis asks. Balin smiles. It's that sort of smile that sad people carry around with them but forget to match their eyes to the expression.

“I remember a young Dwarven Princess who had her older brother wrapped around her little finger”, he says. “He would have done anything for you. If you'd asked for the braids on his head or the izgil in the sky, he would have searched for the way to give it to you.” Balin lays a warm hand over Dis's wrist where it sits on the armrest. “You are his sister, Dis, and the closest kin he's got left. Do not underestimate the place you hold in your brother's heart.”

After Balin finishes his speech, the two are quiet for a long time. Dis seems to be weighing something. Balin can see the battle in her eyes. Finally, she meets his stare.

“You speak of my importance to my brother, yet you do not think I should attempt to change his mind.”

The smile Balin sends her reminds Dis of the one he used to give her when she'd solve a particularly difficult task during her tutoring.

“I think you should do what you feel you must. As must Thorin.”

 

* * *

After the funeral is done, Thorin makes his way back to his room, making sure to leave early so that no one notices him roaming the halls. He has just enough time to remove his cloak before the first knock comes. It is Bofur, followed by his brothers. A minute later, the Ri brothers appear as well, and soon the whole Company (including Dwalin this time) is squeezing into Thorin's room.

Standing in a line like that, some taller, some shorter, they look like a smiling mouth full of crooked teeth – uneven, mismatched, and utterly comforting.

It's like a distorted mirror image of the time when he'd asked them to follow him. They said yes, then. Now they are asking him to stay – not with their words but their eyes and the set of their mouths say as much – and he must refuse them. Refuse the only ones who came when he called. It's not fair, but fair doesn't seem to be Thorin's lot.

He says goodbye to each, knocking brows and sharing a few words. It's short and bitter like that awful pipeweed Dwalin likes, but what else is there to it? What they have become to each other is not for words to confine, and if he could, Thorin would give them each a kingdom of their own. Only they do not seem to want one, anyway. They've got their home back and that seems enough.

One by one, the members of the Company file out of the chamber until only Dwalin and Thorin remain. Silence settles over the two Dwarves, as Dwalin glares at the desk under the window as if it were made by Elven hands. Thorin is reminded of a younger version of his friend sporting a very similar scowl after being beaten in training by Dis. Dwalin, sulking like a dwarfling – he thought is almost enough to draw a faint smile to his lips. But time is running out.

“Dwalin...”

The silence continues as if Thorin hasn't spoken, until Thorin considers physically shaking Dwalin or simply leaving the room to see if it will draw a reaction from his friend. He knows the former option would end badly, while the latter would most probably yield nothing since Dwalin was almost as stubborn as Thorin. With a sigh, Thorin's tense shoulders slump. He is just about to give up when Dwalin finally speaks.

“I would have followed you into death.”

“I know”, Thorin says, because it's true, because he does know. “But I would never have wanted you to. And I am glad you didn't have to.”

“Aye, I didn't.” Dwalin sounds angry about the fact. “But somehow you managed to 'die' all the same. And now you're going where I can't follow.”

Thorin can't find the right words to speak to his friend. He highly suspects there aren't any, really. Dwalin spares him the trouble.

“I could come with you.” His voice is equal parts hope and the crushing knowledge that this hope will be quelled. Dwalin knows as well as Thorin that this is a journey Thorin must travel alone. Not that this would ever stop Dwalin from trying to bully his way against the inevitable. The pleading hope in his life-long friend's eyes almost sways Thorin, but he shakes his head.

“No.”

“Why not?” Dwalin growls in exasperation.

“This is not your exile, buhel.”

“Well, it shouldn't be yours either!”

Thorin rubs a hand down his face, the way he usually does when he is getting a headache. He should have known Dwalin wouldn't back down that easily. It's not in his blood. It's not in Thorin's either.

“I do not wish to discuss this again. We've been over it already. I must do this.”

Dwalin looks ready to rebel again, but Thorin stops him.

“Please. Time's not on our side, Dwalin, and I do not wish to spend any more of it fighting you on this. Stay in Erebor. See our kingdom restored to its former glory.”

“I do not want the blasted mountain if my King isn't here to rule it.” Dwalin growls, but the bite is no longer there and Thorin knows he's won. Funny how it doesn't feel much like a victory.

“And what about your Queen?”

Dwalin bows his head and has the decency to look ashamed.

“Aye. She will make a fine Queen, your sister. Always had more guts than you and Frerin put together.”

Thorin laughs and Dwalin looks at him again.

“There is nothing I can say that will stop you from going through with this nonsense, is there?”

“No.”

“Ach, very well then. I'd start worrying if you were suddenly to turn reasonable now.”

Thorin smiles again and approaches Dwalin, knocking their brows together. This might be the last time he sees his friend, for all he knows. The Company can't follow him to say goodbye when he leaves – it would draw too much suspicion. He must sneak out into the night like a thief.

“Take care of them.”

“As if I need you to tell me.”

They sit together for some time more, share a smoke and pretend that it is just another day in the Blue Mountains. It's easier that way, really. Dwalin stays with Thorin for the rest of the day, until the dusk comes and the sky grows dark, bringing a knock on Thorin's door along with the setting of the sun. Dis is here. It's time to leave.

 

* * *

Dis may be younger than Thorin, but when he looks at his sister now, he sees eyes too old for her face, greys in her hair that shouldn't have appeared for years to come, a stiffness to her spine that speaks of strength forged in hardship. His sister has always been this way – hard as stone, bright as mithril, and as sharp as an Elven blade. But now, there is something frayed and sad about her, a stale sort of anger that has long turned to weariness. She is still as passionate as the Celduin river running in its bed, but it so rarely a joyful passion these days. Protectiveness, yes, and the fiercest of sorts, but not joy. Not anymore. Out of the three Durin siblings, it was always Frerin who found it easiest to look at the bright side of things. Thorin remembers, although vaguely, times when he too laughed often and brooded only rarely and for no reason more severe than a sharp word from his parents. A lifetime ago.

Even then, Dis and he had been far too similar, hot-headed and short-tempered, intense, with emotions running as deeply as mithril veins in Khazad-d _û_ m. Neither knew how to love by halves, and both suffered greatly because of their intemperance. It was difficult at times, to have a person so similar to you in all manners – virtues and flaws alike. It was like living with a mirror constantly at your side. And it is so much harder to hide from yourself when you're own eyes are looking at you from another's face.

But as Dis looks at him in the plain, undecorated hallway, Thorin realises that from that same similarity that so often felt maddening, also stems a deep understanding. In Dis's face he finds the same sadness he feels, the same tired, tired anger over the injustice of it all. They are both so very tired. And they both must go on.

“Why us, sister?” He knows she will understand the question and all it implies. Because, really it's not just one question, but dozens of them. _Why us? Why is all this pain constantly allotted to us? Why is everything we seem to have inherited just a series of losses?_

Dis shrugs.

“Why anyone ever, brother mine... Someone has to be the one to bear it. It might as well be us.”

“There a less worthy people.”

“And worthier ones, too, surely. Would you wish all this on them?”

“I wouldn't wish this on anyone.”

“And yet, someone must be the one to carry the weight. I don't know why it has to be us, Thorin. I honestly don't. I just know that this is our lot in life. And we will see it dealt with. We are Durins”, Dis says, drawing herself to her full height, and suddenly Thorin can see the queen she will make. He thinks that maybe she has always been the strongest one of them all. “And Durin's folk never flee from a fight.”

Thorin smiles a bit, despite himself and the heaviness of the moment. He'd always thought Fili to be the one more similar to Dis, despite the fact that he got his looks from his father. But in that moment he is reminded of Kili – young, reckless Kili. Stubborn, loyal Kili yelling at him in the ruins of Erebor as he emerged from the depth of its halls and his own madness. Thorin can see where he got it from. He was definitely as much his mother's son as his brother.

“Sometimes it seems like everything we ever do is fight” he replies. “Sometimes I feel like I don't know any other way to be.”

“Then maybe it's time you learn. Maybe it is time for someone to teach you.”

The look in Dis's eyes is a knowing one. A look of love and war-forged metal. It's a tough love, pitiless and unpretending, but that's alright. It's for the best. Thorin could not bear pity. He can barely bear the implication of his sister's words, reviving the pain of a what-if, of a possibility lost before it even formed completely. Yes, there was once someone who could have taught him to how just live. Once, but not anymore. He would have to learn on his own now.

“Maybe it is”, is all he says. He knows he cannot win this argument. With one last look at Dis, Thorin strides forward and knocks their brows gently together.

“Take care, namad.”

Before his sister can answer, he turns and starts walking away.

“He loves you, Thorin.” Dis calls after him and it's almost cruel. The corridor echoes with the heavy beat of Thorin's boots against the stone floor. He doesn't turn around and he doesn't stop. Dis isn't telling him anything he doesn't already know. Yes, Bilbo loves him. That's precisely the problem. But he can't tell his sister that. He doesn't have the strength – the little he has left, he must use to force himself out of Erebor and away from the home he so ardently fought for. So he pretends not to hear Dis's words and wills the conversation to die out. But where Thorin is stubborn, Dis is righteous, a Durin through and through, which is why he is only half-surprised when she goes on.

“And you are not unworthy of love, nadad.”

The words are moss-covered rock, soft on the surface but unyielding. Dis speaks with infinite care, but there is no gentleness to it. Truth is rarely gentle, and Dis has always spoken the truths Thorin so desperately wanted to deny. Oh, that truly does sound like his sister. Brutally honest and taking no hostages. Dis speaks the way she fights, aiming for the kill.

Thorin halts to a stop and closes his eyes, his back still to his sister. ' _But I have been'_ , he wants to answer. He doesn't, not because he doesn't believe it to be true, but because he almost fears Dis will convince him change his mind. And what a fickle thing the mind is. Thorin would know. He is already fighting very hard against the call of the Mountain. He can't fight Dis too.

“That may be true, but it doesn't mean I have deserved it. Or that I am worthy of clemency.” Thorin reaches the exit and casts one last look at his sister. “Goodbye, namad. Dayamu Khuzan-ai menu.”

“Safe travels, Thorin. May the road be good to you.” Dis's voice is quiet and resigned as she watches him go.

The night is bright, and bitter, and blue – a palette of cold colours and silvery shadows covering the raging oranges of recent flames and the blooming reds of the battle. The ground has soaked up the colour of blood, leaving only dark, colourless stains. Thorin makes his way out of the side-tunnel, like a thief in the night, and the air around him is far too open, the sky too far above, and the soil to soft. It is beautiful, in its own right, but it is wrong. It's not the dry coolness of Erebor's halls, nor the heavy darkness of its deepest mining chutes. This is an Elven night – silver and light, ethereal. Imperious. It is no place for a dwarf. But it is where Thorin must go, so he fixes his travelling cloak- the new clasp is not as good as the old one – and starts his way down the slope of the Lonely Mountain.

In the distance, the fires of Dale light up the ruined city of Men. The survivors of Laketown will spend a few more days taking care of their wounded, Thorin predicts, with mothers clinging to their children's hands just a little too tightly, friends walking just slightly closer than necessary. But soon, the sharp sting of fear will ebb away and the city will slowly start its reparation.

Looking at the flickering fires, Thorin feels a vague twist of curiosity pierce through the numbness. Men are an interesting people. They forget lessons of history much faster than Dwarves or those tree-shaggers, the Elves. Out of the three races, they are the least durable one, more mortal, and almost ridiculously fragile. And yet, they persist, despite all odds, growing like saplings from ashes and burnt ground, their roots to deep too be reached by the frost.

Setting out into the night, Thorin wonders how they do it.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edelweiss [meaning: noble courage]  
> crocus [meaning: youthful gladness]


	2. Where the river meets the stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my beta threatened to kill me because of this chapter. I'll take that as a good omen. Enjoy!

  


* * *

The sky is every colour, from smoke-blue to rose quartz- pink, as Thorin heads East. Steep and rocky, the paths down Erebor's slopes would be a challenge for anyone else to navigate in the half-gloom of the pre-dawn world, but Thorin covers the distance with ease. If his step is not light and if his shoulders are slightly slumped, then that should not be a comment on his trekking prowess. With every step the ground grows softer, less rock than earth, wrenching pieces of familiarity from Thorin. Down below, the Long Lake stretches in the shadow, a wet trail on the face of the earth. It is still too dark for Thorin to be able to discern the charred remnants of Laketown, but this only works in his favour. If he cannot see much in the darkness, then hopefully nothing can see _him_ , either. He hopes to make it to the foot of the mountain by sunrise, maybe even walk along the shore of the Lake to what is left of the Men's water-based town.

He has decided to travel only by night until he is far away enough from Erebor and Dale, safe in the knowledge that no one familiar will catch a sight of him. There is a practicality to this necessity, seeing as the days are cold, but the nights are colder, and in the absence of a small fire, Thorin prefers to move at night to keep warm, and sleep during the day when it is easier not to freeze in his sleep. Besides, there might still be packs of orcs roaming around these parts, disorientated in the wake of their leader's defeat, and Thorin would rather they do not catch him sleeping.

He continues walking as the ground keeps growing grassier and less rocky around him, until he finally reaches the shores of the Long Lake, rouge pebbles littering the grass this close to the waterline. Thorin's eyes keep scanning the low line of shrubbery growing farther up the slopes, when an unexpected rustling of dry leaves pierces the quiet.

Thorin spins around to face the source of the sound, but finds himself facing not an orc or a goblin, but a shaggy bag of fur. The dog is mangy and visibly hungry, all skin and bones, but its eyes are bright and kind in spite of its state. It limps a few steps behind Thorin, as if it were Thorin's very own flee-riddled shadow. He should send it away, Thorin knows. He can't afford to feed it and have it following him around.

But the dog just comes to walk beside Thorin, not even sniffing at his bag in search for food, and Thorin can't find it in his heart to shoo it away.

“Well, come along then”, he says, finding his voice rough and hoarse against the softness of his throat. The dog's clever eyes follow Thorin as he moves away and soon it begins to follow him again. Its presence is oddly comforting.

They walk for some time together, the heavy beat of Thorin's boots mixing with the faster patter of the dog's paws. Thorin expects the dog to wander off after a while, but it keeps steadfast and follows him even as the grassy land gives way to wooden piers.

When they finally reach Laketown, it is a place of ghosts. Most of the houses are blackened skeletons standing on rickety legs over the icy waters. There are some places where the wood has been spared of Smaug's fire, which hold steadily under Thorin's weight, but he still keeps to the parts closest to the shore, just to be safe. The dog simply skunks around after him, too light to upset the unstable structures.

Among the destruction, Thorin finds a tall, narrow house still standing. Part of the roof is now gaping open, exposing the insides to the elements, but it will do. He is careful as he climbs up. The dog follows, sniffing curiously at the now-abandoned stairs.

When they reach the main floor of the house, Thorin finds a sheltered corner under the untouched part of the roof and settles down. He fishes out a small package of food – some dried meat and bread, and soft cheese wrapped in leaves.

He tears a chunk of the meat and offers it to the dog, now settled near Thorin's raised knees. It sniffs at it before accepting, and Thorin's hand wanders to scratch the sorry creature behind the ears.

Weariness settles over Thorin as he makes camp in the abandoned rooms, but sleep still eludes him. A futile sort of rest, this is, wearing him down more than travel ever could, with nothing to distract him from his thoughts, not even the steady rhythm of walking. Still, he must keep to the cover of darkness until he is far enough from these parts, so sleep or no, Thorin must stay put before he can move on with the last light of day. There is a strangeness to this solitary kind of travel that he's never felt before. To face the road with nothing but the clothes on his back and the intent of crossing a distance, no matter where to. It sounds too simple. For the first time in his life, Thorin has no one else to be responsible for, no one else to consider.

He doesn't quite know what to do with this new-found liberty. In the days between deciding to leave and the funeral, Thorin's had some time to think about where to go. One has time to think about a lot of things during sleepless nights. But, in the solitude of early morning, Thorin is weary enough to admit to himself that his departure from Erebor was, in fact, running away. He doesn't know where to go. All he knows is that he must avoid all the places he once visited or even called home, at least at first, until his memory fades enough in the hearts and minds of his kin and friends. There are places he'd like to visit again, one day in the future, places of meaning and memory – Ered Luin, where Fili and Kili were born and raised, and Dol Guldur, where his father has fallen. This, Thorin had learned from Gandalf the day the wizard came to his rooms to hear of Thorin's plan to leave Erebor. They've exchanged grim news like reluctant war spoils, bitter and unwanted on both sides.

Love and shame burn in turns within Thorin when he thinks of Gandalf's words and the knowledge that his father had died protecting Thorin and his quest. The empty tomb in Erebor feels that much more like a mockery – that Thorin should have his memory carven into stone while his father is lost to the ether over that cursed hill. So many dead, Thorin thinks, that it may take the rest of his life to complete this pilgrimage dedicated to them. One day, he thinks, he'd like to see the Shire again, maybe.

But those places will have to wait until they're a legend themselves, until the life that still buzzes within Ered Luin doesn't move on to Erebor, and the interest and power wrapped around Dol Guldur die away. Thorin must wait until life forgets. That's alright, because in the time it will take life to do so, Thorin may yet find a way to prove himself worthy of these visits. Until then he will roam. Thorin wonders if his father would be disappointed.

And although his thoughts are shadowed, the memory of his father unleashes another, half-faded reminiscences into the tumultuous whirl of Thorin's mind. It is one of his earliest memories, and one of the happiest, too.

It was the summer just after Dis's fifth birthday, when his father took them all to see the Sea of Rhûn. They'd travelled along the River Running until they reached the great water. Thorin had never seen anything like it. The Inland Sea stretched like a sheet of liquid silver to the very edges of the horizon. One could have easily fitted Erebor at its centre and still they'd have to wade through water to reach it. It was the first time Thorin remembers feeling very small, but in that way one does when he realises there is nothing but air between him and the vastness of the star-speckled sky at night, or that the seasons will change forever. It was reassuring to the young Dwarven Prince, this knowledge that at the end of the day, no matter the burdens that awaited him, he was small in a great vastness that has always been, and would continue to be after he was long removed to the Halls of his ancestors.

Thorin remembers seeing great herds of the Kine of Araw on the planes around the Sea, with their horns gleaming in the sunlight. He and Frerin had tried to catch a calf, once, but not with much success. Thrain caught one for them in the end, and oh, Dwalin looked ready to die of envy when Thorin returned to Erebor with a cloak made out of the animal's hide. They'd all been so terribly young and certain of a grand future that awaited them all.

Most of all, Thorin remembers the freedom of that summer, the sheer simplicity of being that marked those days before the madness of Durin's line cast a shadow over the Lonely Mountain and the dark forces took away his home and his kin, alike. For years, the memory of that family trip had been one of Thorin's favourites. It wasn't until later that he'd realised his father's decision was a strategic move planned to remove them all from Erebor for a while just as Thror's madness started to descend upon the old King. To Thorin, it was always that one summer when he'd had his family together and almost care-free.

Thorin knows his heart's decided even before the memory runs its course completely. He doesn't know what he expects to find on the shores of Rhûn, but he knows that's where he will go. He decides to follow the river, eastbound, just like he'd done with his family centuries ago. It will be early spring by the time he reaches his destination, Thorin calculates. He wonders idly if the wild white Kine are still roaming around on the green planes around the water, and the thought is so absurdly innocent, so light and unweighted by death and remorse that it is almost painful in its plainness. Just like the time he'd first seen the Sea, he feels small now, if not necessarily very young. Thorin feels small in the vastness as he is reminded that even epic battles and great losses do not hold the power to curb small things such as innocuous wonder.

Looking out over the water of the Long Lake, he watches the sun rise from its hiding. The sky is burning orange now, bleeding light, and Thorin is reminded, however painfully, that he is in fact still alive.

 

* * *

The great library of Erebor is a ruin, a kingdom of dust and mold. The ages-old parchment crumbles under curious fingers, turning to story-dust, the ink on it faded to shades of tea-brown. Even so, it is Ori's favourite place in the Mountain. So, it is not a wonder that it is there that Nori finds him, cautious hands re-binding a particularly desolated volume of Dwarven Trade and Customs Law.

“Dori asked me to tell you that whatever you are doing can't possibly be as important as clearing your lungs of all this dust, so he expects you down with us for lunch and some fresh air by midday”, Nori says.

“Oin said my lungs are fine, and the cough is getting better”, Ori replies absent-mindedly, eyes never wavering from the work at hand. Nori snorts.

“He could take your lungs and show them to Dori for inspection, but it still wouldn't stop Dori's fussing, and you know it.”

Ori just makes a non-committal noise and carefully ties a knot at the end of the thread he is using to bind the pages together.

“What did you want to talk to me about, Ori?”

The untypical determination in his brother's voice when Ori asked him to come to the library had surprised Nori. He is curious to hear what got his brother is such a state. Picking up one of the less fragile-looking books piled high on Ori's work desk – a collection of Dwarven songs and tales translated into Common – Nori flips through the pages and waits for an answer.

“Put that down please, it's a commission, and you're getting fingertips all over it” Ori frets, nodding at the book in Nori's hands. The older Ri brother puts down the tome, distantly wondering who'd commissioned it. There are better things to worry about than books, at the moment. He is about to push for an answer, but he doesn't get the chance to speak before Ori beats him to it.

“We could have stopped him, if we'd tried.” Ori says with no preamble. His words are angry and unusually forceful, betraying how upset he really is. Nori doesn't think he's ever seen his brother so riled up. “We didn't even try. We just stood there and let him go.”

Nori sighs quietly. He expected something in this vein.

“Has our journey taught you nothing, naddith?” he replies. “You can't stop Thorin once he's made up his mind about something. No one can.”

“Not no one.” Ori murmurs under his breath, letting his words flutter down onto the pages he is working on. Nori smirks. It's true – not no one. But the one person who could have changed Thorin's mind is currently grieving his death, convinced Thorin is buried under a lid of stone.

“True”, Nori concedes. “At least no one who knows Thorin's alive, then. And that narrows the pool quite a bit”, he says.

“We could have tried!” Ori snaps the book in front of him closed (and really, Ori handling books with anything but utter care and respect is alarming enough on its own) and whirls around to face his brother, face pinched. Nori pushes off the wall on which he's been leaning and walks over to his younger brother, clapping heavy hands on Ori's shoulders.

“We could have, but it would have been to no avail.”

The mutinous desperation in Ori's eyes inclines Nori to go on.

“Thorin has made mistakes, Ori. Some real, and some made such only by his own mind, but this doesn't matter. He has to manage them as he knows, now.”

“Everyone makes mistakes. That does not mean they must leave.” Some of the fight leaves Ori's voice, and he sounds more doleful than angry.

“Aye, it does not”, Nori agrees. “But what Thorin carries around with him are not mere mistakes. Nor ones easily fixed.”

“Not easily fixed is not the same as unfixable.” Oh, Ori, Nori thinks. How did such a hopeful creature ever survive in the harsh, cold world around them? How is he still so very full of faith, after everything?

“You must understand, little brother. Mistakes are like wounds, scratches, bumps and bruises – they happen. Every now and then, they happen and you can't avoid them”, Nori says. “There are two things to do with a wound, Oin always told me – treat it or leave it alone. Sometimes the wound heals on its own. Just so, sometimes mistakes are small and go unnoticed. No scars, no limps.”

Ori listens to his brother, his eyes sharp and keen.

“Other times, however, the wound bleeds and bleeds. Sometimes you mess up real bad. And then you go on and stick your open wound into dirty dishwater because it seems like a good idea. Why, I couldn't tell you. It's just one of those things. You mess up big time, so you lie. If mistakes are like wounds, then lies are like the grit, the filth that gets caught in the wounds. It doesn't seem critical at first, but the thing with lies is that they breed new lies. So the filth accumulates. It festers. And your wound gets infected. It starts oozing.”

Nori speaks with conviction of someone speaking from experience, and Ori mourns the fact that his brother has any such experience to draw upon, at all.

“Guilt is like puss”, Nori continues. “It's rotten and it hurts. It keeps the wound from healing properly. It doesn't even allow for a neat silver scar. All you get is ugly, inflamed flesh. And here's the worst part about guilt – it won't kill you. It will just cause you to live in permanent blood poisoning, so to speak. Guilt isn't lethal”, he concludes. “It's worse. It's chronic. And far more common than healing.”

Nori can see Ori mull over his words for a long moment before he nods.

“I suppose this makes sense”, he says. Then he smiles, a small smile that holds no joy. His eyes are so very old. “After all, healing hurts just as much. And takes much longer than a simple lie. ”

“What happened to you, Ori?” Nori muses, a fond smile on his lips. “I don't remember you being this fierce before. Or this wise.”

“I travelled across mountains and evil forests” Ori retorts petulantly, as any younger brother should. “And then I watched my friends die or leave. Did you really expect me to stay the same after all that, brother?”

Nori's usually closed-off expression falters and his face crumples with sadness.

“No. But I wish you could have.”

Ori shakes his head. “I do not. I am not happy about the things that came to pass, but I am not sorry for what they've made out of me.”

There is fire in Ori's too-old eyes as he says this, and Nori mourns the loss of innocence in them, even if Ori does not.

“Do not grow hard, little brother”, he says, knocking their brows gently together. “Do not grow bitter.”

“I will not”, Ori replies. “But we can't just let him go like that, Nori. Not after everything.”

“No, we can't”, Nori agrees. “But I don't think that's ever been the plan in the first place.”

Ori sits back at his desk and casts him a puzzled look.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you are not the only one who's been unhappy with recent events, naddith.” Nori's slightly wicked smile is back. “It means Thorin forgot one thing – we're as likely to give up on getting our way as he is.”

 

* * *

The throne room of Erebor is empty. The central parts of the city are being decorated for the upcoming coronation. Well, 'decorated' is maybe too strong a word. Uncluttered, yes, tidied up. But even so, with the centuries' worth of dust gone and the rubble cleared away, the halls glow with a new splendour.

But on the long path leading up to the raised platform where the throne sits, there are no workers polishing the stone, no craftsmen refreshing the detailed carvings. The bare-footed steps of a solitary figure walking towards the centre of the room are barely audible in the vastness of the chamber.

He's early, Bilbo knows. Dis asked to see him here at the midday bell, but with nothing to better to do than roam around the halls of Erebor, Bilbo finds himself slipping into the throne room. For all his love of his friends, in the days following his waking-up, he hasn't had a moment of peace. He doubts he will find peace anywhere in the mountain – his is the sort of unrest that does not go away after a lazy afternoon spent in the shade of a tree or a calm afternoon of reading– but at least here there is some solitude and quiet.

Reaching the throne, Bilbo stops at the first step, his gaze falling to the spot where he stood that time when Balin and Dwalin tried to convince Thorin he was being unreasonable. The image of Thorin hunched under the weight of full armour, heavy furs, jewels, and his own paranoia, drifts over the memory, and Bilbo looks away. The empty throne draws his eyes upwards.

The cracked bed of the Arkenstone yawns empty, marring the intricate design atop the throne. It looks like poorly healed scar, and Bilbo likes it. He understands that they can hardly crown Dis among ruins, but he likes this one broken feature amidst all the neatness and grandeur that is slowly overtaking the rest of the mountain. It feels like the only true thing in the whole place, ragged and ugly and wrong. Bilbo thinks his heart must look much the same.

When he cannot stand to look at the throne and the ghosts that haunt it, Bilbo turns his back to it and sinks down onto the steps. In the dusty silence, his head feels very loud. Maybe some peace and quiet was not such a good idea, after all.

The gaping emptiness inside his chest is even more pronounced now that there is no friendly chatter flowing his way off Bofur's tongue, or quiet companionship of Ori and Balin easing the chill in his marrow. Without Dwalin's gruff presence and Oin's constant bustling around the infirmary, where Bilbo spent the first few days after waking up, bed-ridden with a concussion, the horrifying realness of everything that's happened comes crashing down. Bilbo wonders if the Dwarves on the other side of the door can hear the cacophony of his thoughts echoing across the marble walls, and the utterly more malicious silence of his heart clawing at his insides like a vulture picking at a carcass.

It made its nest somewhere behind Bilbo's breastbone the day he found the Company – no, not the Company, the Company was always thirteen dwarves, and he'd only opened his eyes to ten of them – standing around his cot, pale, drawn faces looking down at him.

Bilbo had tried to talk, but the sudden wave of nausea that washed over him kept him silent as he emptied his stomach into a bucket that Oin hurriedly lifted in his lap. The infirmary was dark to the point where Bilbo could barely make out the edges of the room. Concussion, Oin told him. The feeling of cotton-wool that wrapped around Bilbo's sluggish thoughts seemed to confirm the healer's diagnosis.

“Wrong number”, he said when he finally found his tongue. The Dwarves looked confused, a few casting alarmed glances at Oin, as if checking with him if maybe Bilbo's injury caused some actual damage to his mind.

“What was that, Bilbo?” Bofur asked.

“There's a wrong number of you” Bilbo replied, and in his muddled mind it was perfectly obvious, of course, what he meant. Apparently the others caught on after this, if their expressions were anything to go by. Balin looked ready to cry – maybe he was crying, Bilbo couldn't see in the gloom – and Dwalin let out a sound a wounded animal might. The others just went pale and very still. In the end, it was Bofur who'd found his voice first.

“It's not the wrong number, Bilbo”, he said, but Bilbo interrupted him before he could finish that thought.

“No, it is.” He'd made the mistake of shaking his head, which sent it spinning in another painful whirl of colours dancing in front of his eyes. He shut them tightly, trying to will the world into stillness once more. “Thirteen. There's thirteen of you.”

Bofur's reply was so quiet, Bilbo almost missed it.

“Not anymore.”

It was in that moment that Bilbo felt it – the dark, rotting sort of silence that made home in his chest, in the empty space that was occupied by someone else just moments prior.

“How many?” he managed to rasp out.

Confusion fought with grief on Bofur's face, so Bilbo elaborated. Eru, his head ached.

“How many is the right number?”

“Oh... ten.”

Bilbo was certain then that he was in fact still asleep and his aching brain was playing mean tricks on him.

“No.”

“I'm so sorry, Bilbo.” Bofur's hands were anxiously twisting the flaps of his tattered hat.

“Fili?” Bilbo asked and the shake of Bofur's head hurt more than that of his own did. And that sort of ache was not one he could sleep away.

“Kili?” Even now, Bilbo doesn't understand what made him keep going like that, asking questions he already knew answers to, scrapping the words from the bottom of his soul and dragging them across his throat where they burned like a hangover over a too-strong ale.

“We're sorry, Bilbo”, Bofur said. Bilbo didn't ask his next question and no one spoke aloud the answer he did not want to hear. He's mumbled something about sleep, too numb to care if there was a response. The combination of concussion and the brews Oin's given him took its toll and taken him away into merciful oblivion.

It wasn't until he next woke, head much clearer – though not less painful – that he truly understood that it had not all been a twisted phantasm.

“I want to see them”, Bilbo said. The room had been a bit lighter that time around, and he could see the array of cuts and bruises on his friends' faces. But what could bruise and heal was alive, and Bilbo thought then that they'd never looked more splendid than in that moment, simply for the act of living. And yet, despite the part of him that thanked Valar for keeping them alive, theirs were not the faces he wanted to see.

“You can't, Bilbo”, Nori said, apparently assuming the role of the bringer of bad news. Bofur certainly looked as if he could use a break from it.

They'd told him then that he'd woken up too late, that they'd laid them in stone already, the last of their warmth now but a memory of the ground that'd seen them fall and the hands that had cleaned their wounds.

“We could not wait, Bilbo”, Oin said. “You were asleep for so long, and it just had to be done.”

The rest of that day is a haze of grey, but the one thing Bilbo remembers quite clearly is the lack of tears. He remembers not crying once everyone left, nor a couple of days after, in the privacy of his new room after he was moved there from the sickbay.

In fact, Bilbo hasn't cried at all, ever since they told him of Thorin's death, and his nephews'. As if the tears got lost somewhere along the way. Lost tears for a lost Dwarf seem somehow appropriate. After all, didn't Thorin warn Bilbo he was bad at finding the right path? That first night, right from the beginning. Got lost twice, he said. Well, wherever he wandered off to now, he's taken Bilbo's tears with him.

The sound of approaching footsteps snaps Bilbo out of his sickly reverie.

“I see you've found your way well enough”, Dis says.

“I have, yes.” He offers a small smile before adding, a bit redundantly. “I got your note. What did you wish to speak to me about?”

Dis's eyes wander over to the throne and she climbs onto the platform. She seems oddly restless, avoiding Bilbo's eyes as she gazes at the royal chair in front of her. Something tickles the edges of Bilbo's mind, a looming whisper of intuition, and he is about to ask if something's the matter, confused by the lack of Dis's usual directness, but Dis beats him to it.

“The coronation. The date's finally been set.”

Oh. “When is it, then?”, he asks.

“Tomorrow night.”

Bilbo hums.

“We bury our dead at dawn and crown our monarchs at dusk”, Dis explains. “You must think us very odd.”

“Not at all”, Bilbo retorts. “Why is this?”

Dis runs a hand over the cold stone of the throne.

“It is believed that this allows the mountain and Mahal to come to terms with the change, so that with the new morning sun, the kingdom awakens ready for a new era”, she says. “There are no feasts that night, nor the following day. The celebration is held after the sun sets again and the first day of the new rule is done.”

“Will it be held this time?” Bilbo asks. “Considering most of your people are still on their way from Ered Luin, I mean.”

“Yes. It is tradition. Besides, Dain's men will expect one, even if it is not Dain being crowned, after all.”

Dis's tone is wry, and it takes Bilbo by surprise. He cocks his head inquisitively and Dis explains.

“They weren't expecting this. I am not their Queen. As you said, most of own people are still on the road, save for the small group that came with me and Dain. All this is but a mere game of charades. A necessary one, though. We cannot afford to look weak or leaderless, not now.”

The frown that creases Dis's brow is a familiar one, a Durin family trait, Bilbo muses. He leaves the future queen of Erebor to her thoughts for a few moments, before she turns her attention back to him, ushering him back towards the exit.

“You will come, of course. To the coronation?” It's not quite a question, but Bilbo knows it's not a command either. It feels more like a friendly request. Or a request from a friend.

“Of course.” Bilbo says, managing a tight smile – a fake one, as they both well know, but it's the effort that counts. “Is there anything in particular that I should be aware of?”

“Nothing I can think of, no”, Dis replies as they walk away from the throne. “The ceremony will be kept to the basics – the honouring of ancestors, the coronation itself, and the songs. It shouldn't last long. I'll ask Balin to catch you up on the details.”

The smile that flits over Bilbo's face this time feels much more genuine, mostly because it's so sad Dis loathes to even call it a smile. How can an expression reserved for happiness hold so much sorrow, she wonders. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes”, Bilbo nods. “It's just been a while since I've had the pleasure of hearing Dwarven songs, that's all.”

The softening of Dis's features tells Bilbo that his own face is probably betraying much more than he wishes, but there is little to be done about that. Besides, it is not as if he could ever fool Dis.

“Well, I hope they do justice to your memory of them”, is all she says, looking at Bilbo with a kind sort of knowingness.

“I'm sure they will”, Bilbo answers softly, even though he knows they will not. How could they? How could they ever measure up to the echoes of Thorin singing about a journey over cold mountains, safe and alive in Bilbo's living room? Nothing would ever sound like that anymore. And for all the voices booming through the mountain, the silence in Bilbo's heart is deafening.

“Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?” Bilbo asks, and the strange uncertainty plays over Dis's features for a second before she shakes her head.

“No. No, nothing. I just wanted to make sure you knew you were very welcome here, Bilbo, and that your presence will be valued at the ceremony.” She casts him an appraising look. “Was there anything _you_ wanted to talk about?”

“Oh, no”, Bilbo answers. There is, in fact, one thing, but Dis has already got enough on her plate and Bilbo decides not to ask about the empty runestone. He'll ask Balin instead. He tries to convince himself it is because he wants to spare Dis – and himself – the pain of bringing up the funerals, and not because Dis's knowing look and possible answer threaten to flood his chest with dull aching that's got nothing to do with potentially accidentally disrespecting Dwarven burial traditions, and everything to do with missed chances, taunting _almost_ s, and maddening _what-if_ s.

Dis walks him out of the throne room and back into the bustling halls, and they walk in amiable silence for some time, navigating the twisting corridors. Bilbo bids Dis goodbye at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the wing where he's been given rooms and climbs up, a decision already half-formed in his mind. He will stay for the coronation ceremony.

And then he will leave and go back home. What else is there for him to do? He'd come here, and now he must go back again.

 

* * *

Thorin finally falls asleep sometime before noon. The trickster sun of winter shines brightly, but offers little in terms of warmth. Beneath its cold light, Thorin sleeps like the dead, mercifully spared of dreams. He does not see the blur of black feathers that flits over the blue expanse and settles on a nearby roof, nor does he notice the yellow dog raising to its feet and limping quietly back into Laketown and on the shore.

When Thorin wakes, the stars are already out, the sun long gone. Mind fuzzy with sleep, he searches for the dog for a few moments, a strange sort of disappointment settling over him when he finds it gone. It's for the better, he tells himself. He couldn't have kept it anyway.

He grabs his pack and makes his way out of the darkened town. It's a slow business, the safe path much harder to follow in the dark, but Thorin is a khuzd, and his dark-vision stays true, leading him through the shadows, over creaking wood, back onto firm land.

Behind him, Erebor rises, reaching towards the moon. The snow-capped peak glistens like silver-steel and Thorin stands a long time looking at it. It wasn't very long ago that he'd watched that same peek from the Carrock, and then from a small boat as he sailed across the lake to regain the home within the Mountain. It looks as majestic as it did then, and infinitely further out of reach than ever.

Thorin doesn't know how long he stands there, gazing at the Lonely Mountain, but when he turns away and starts walking, he does not look back again. If he did, maybe he would have seen the glowing pair of eyes watching him from the edge of the treeline before disappearing in the shadows, or the black bird that lifts off from its perch on one of Laketown's roofs.

As it is, Thorin leaves Erebor behind completely unaware of the yellow dog that slips away towards Mirkwood, hurrying to report back, or the raven that flies overhead, following him at a discrete distance.

 

* * *

The whole of Erebor gathers the next evening in the throne room and from his place in the front row, Bilbo can see that even the injured found a way to be there. The Dwarves certainly know how to do special occasions, Bilbo will give them that. All the pomp and circumstance is becoming, bringing out the impressive architecture and the gleaming beauty of the Halls.

The massive chandeliers are ablaze with warm light that bounces off the polished stone walls and floors. There is less gold and gemstones than Bilbo would have expected, with the crown in Dain's hands being the only truly extravagant thing in the room. Well, apart from the finery of the gathered crowd, which varies from simple, heavy golden bracelets and earrings to chains upon chains of precious metals inlaid with jewels, and even thin strands of gold braided into the Dwarves' intricate hairstyles.

Large drums are placed along the length of the path leading to the throne, and they rattle and roar as the gate opens and Dis steps into the room, beginning her procession towards the centre of the chamber. She is dressed in silver mail and an armour decorated in an angular, geometric pattern, very Dwarven in its design, and not a dress as Bilbo assumed was custom. A long cape trails after her, ink-blue threaded with silver symbols that disappear under the fur-lined edges. Dis's long black hair is done more simply than for the funerals, and it spills over her shoulders in black-and-silver waves. There are fewer braids – two around her face, tied off with two simple beads Bilbo knows stand for her sons, and three more running from her widow's peek across the top of her head, ending in three different beads, too. Bilbo supposes one must be for her husband, while the other two are surely for Frerin and... well, for her brothers. Dis had told him about Frerin during one of their late-night chats, when she's found him wandering the corridors in search of elusive sleep. They took to drinking tea and talking after such midnight tête-à-têtes in empty hallways became a regular occurrence between the two insomniacs.

Even now, shadows paint the thin skin under Dis's eyes, but her eyes are sharp as she moves through the crowd. The drummers beat a steady rhythm, not quite a march, but something closer to a heartbeat, Bilbo realises. It picks up speed as Dis draws nearer to the throne, and then stops abruptly when she settles into the stone seat.

Great torches cast dancing shadows over the proceedings, and it all looks very grand, Bilbo thinks, but for all the glory of it, there is a hollowness in the air. A necessary game of charades, Dis had called it, and Bilbo understands why now. The whole ceremony reminds him of a poor dancer trying very hard to waltz – all the steps are being followed correctly, but the flow of it is wrong, mechanic and uneasy.

“Maiklim, batshûna” Dain's voice booms over the gathered Dwarves as he lowers the heavy crown of Thror on Dis's intricately braided hair. He then proceeds to step away as Dis rises from the throne, spine straight and head held high despite the crown's weight. Dain is the first to kneel, bowing his head and greeting the new Queen of Erebor.

“Maihrim, nâtha Durinul!” he says, and the whole chamber echoes as the Dwarves repeat after him in unison and bow their heads. 

Bilbo can just stare helplessly at the glint of light that flits over the polished metal. The crown mocks him, gold and mithril perched on a mane of dark hair laced with silver strands – just as they were the last time Bilbo saw it, on another brow, corrupting another mind. He hates that crown as much as he hates the Arkenstone and all the cursed gold of Erebor. But as Dis comes to stand on the edge of the steps leading up to the throne, Bilbo must admit that on her head, the crown is but a mere trinket, rather than a messenger of doom. There is no madness in Dis's eyes, not haunted hunch over her shoulders. If anything, the Queen looks sober and sombre as she faces the room, taking a deep breath in preparation.

From his briefing, Bilbo knows what comes next, but even so he is caught off-guard when Dis starts to sing. Hauntingly rich, her voice is not the rumbling thunder of her brother's, but the swift clashing of river rapids over their rocky bed. A hush so complete falls over the room that Bilbo barely dares to breathe, lest it shatters.

Dis's coronation song spills into the air and resonates in Bilbo's very bones, a sweet ache only music knows how to elicit temporarily managing to fill the raging emptiness inside him. Dis sings the way rushing water pushes its way forward, and there is nothing delicate about it. It is raw and formidable. It is shatteringly beautiful.

_Hear the runnel sound its call_   
_For dreamers lost to atone_   
_On ground that saw so many fall_   
_Where the river meets the stone_

_Amdâmu o'rid,  
Albâmu in_

_Cast your dear tired soul_   
_Into the silver river's flow_   
_Watch the water waste away_   
_All the plagues of the day_

_Amdâmu o'rid,  
Albâmu in_

_Remember now, even stones of yore_   
_Are washed anew on the river's shore_   
_And where restless water sings of time_   
_Sharpest of rocks burnished shall shine_

_Amdâmu o'rid,  
Albâmu in_

_Where the raven-birds do nest_   
_May the weary seek their rest_   
_Follow the water, follow it home_   
_Come new, come altered_   
_Where the river meets the stone_

_Amdâmu o'rid,_   
_Albâmu in,_   
_'ân ra'aban,_   
_Naibriti, hikhthuzul naibriti._   
  


The end of the song is met with silence, and even though Bilbo knows this is the customary response, the shocked expression on some of the faces around him, as well as Balin's and Dwalin's exchange of knowing looks tells Bilbo that this silence is more than simple protocol.

“I missed something, didn't I?”, he murmurs to Balin, who is standing next to him. The old Dwarf sighs and responds in a low voice.

“The song the newly-crowned sing is always a message. A promise, if you will.”

“And what about this one? What is wrong with it?”

“Nothing wrong. It's just.. unorthodox, shall we say? Our new Queen is saddling herself with a challenge or two.”

Noticing Bilbo's curious look, Balin gives in and explains.

“The song Dis sang is not something one would expect a queen to sing. It speaks of change. Reminds us that even the sturdiest of stones can we worn away by water. We might be better at swimming than the gentle Hobbit folk, but Dwarves are not big on change, as you might have noticed. We know the power water has over even the sturdiest rock, given time. And no sensible ruler would start their time on the throne with a song about it. It invites unrest.”

“I thought the song was about coming home.”

“Partly, yes. But for most part, it is about remembrance – learning on mistakes of our ancestors. And changing their ways so that those mistakes are not repeated.”

“Why did she do it then? If it is not sensible.” Dis strikes Bilbo as many things, but insensible is not one of them.

“I am not entirely sure, lad”, Balin says, eyeing his Queen. “Not entirely sure at all.”

They both fall quiet as they approach the raised platform. As the victors of Erebor, they and the rest of the Company are among the first to greet its new Queen, right behind Dain and his dignitaries. The eleven of them come to stand in a neat line in front of Dis. As Bilbo bends his head and turn to kneel, Dis's speaks:

“My friend, you bow to no one.” She turns to the rest of the Company then. “And neither do any of you. Dolzekh Menu.” Dis inclines her head in their direction, the small bow failing to disrupt the crown on her head.

A susurrous tremor shivers through the crowd, and judging from the gaping looks his companions give the Queen, Bilbo gathers that Dis is on a fast track of casting tradition to the wind.

“I take this is not usually the way things go”, he comments as the Company returns to their spots.

“Nothing about is 'the usual', laddie”, Balin sighs, just as another murmur shivers through the mass. Balin's and Bilbo's gazes snap back to Dis, searching for the cause of the commotion. They find it as soon as their eyes find the newly-crowned Queen. Who is no longer wearing her crown.

“Oh Mahal...” Balin breathes. The royal advisor watches wide-eyed as Dis places her crown on the ground before the throne, getting down on one knee, her head bent, and murmurs a low string of words in Khuzdul. It sounds like a prayer or a blessing and Bilbo doesn't think much of it until he catches the sound of Thorin's name in the litany.

“What's happening?” Bilbo whispers.

“There is a custom for the new king or queen to honour their predecessor”, Balin replies, his eyes still on Dis. “It is done by reciting the Blessing of the Fallen and by singing the predecessor's coronation song, fulfilling the circle of their rule so that they are escorted into memory with the same words with which their era began.” Balin finally looks at Bilbo and his eyes are large with surprise and some emotion Bilbo cannot name. “Dis just acknowledged Thorin as her predecessor on the throne. This changes everything. Thorin will be remembered as a rightful King of Erebor now.”

A soft prickle of doubt deep within Bilbo tells him that there is more to Dis's actions than Balin is letting on – a meaning that he is missing. But he cannot pay it any mind, not when a new surge of aching washes over him as he thinks of all the things that came too late and the song Thorin never got to sing. Bilbo doesn't get the chance to wonder which one it would be, before Dis stands up and turns around to face her kingdom. Her eyes travel over the Company in silent question, and each Dwarf nods in tacit agreement. As the last Dwarf in line – Balin, right next to Bilbo – nods his assent, Dis starts to sing. Her voice is rich and deep. But it's not Thorin's and that alone makes all the tones sound wrong. One by one, the Dwarves of the Company join in.

When he looks back at that moment in the months to come, Bilbo will think that perhaps some part of him knew what he was about to witness. He will still think that nothing in the world could have prepared him for it. He will wonder if there was ever anything else to be done. He will know there wasn't.

With Bilbo's heart beating in his ears, the throne room rings with the sound of Thorin's coronation song.

“ _Far over the Misty Mountains cold_  
To dungeons deep and caverns old  
We must away ere break of day,  
To seek the pale enchanted gold...”

Bilbo can't do more than look at his friend's faces as they sing. And after a while, he can't even do that anymore, either. Balin's eyes are glistening with tears, and so are Dwalin's and Bofur's. Ori looks almost defiant. Even Nori sings, nothing of his usual cynical amusement visible on his face. He stands both proud and humble, loyal to the bone. And if Bilbo closes his eyes, he can almost imagine them all back in Bag End, by his small fire, settled around on too-small furniture. He can hear Thorin singing, he can see Fili and Kili glowing with their young, naïve wish to follow wherever their Uncle leads.

Bilbo doesn't close his eyes.

Instead, he meets Dis's, and is taken aback to find fire in them. This is no sorrow, no pained look of grief. The Queen Under the Mountain looks fierce and resolute. She looks at Bilbo and the hobbit cannot shake the feeling that there is something he's missing. But then again, he's lost a lot lately. Maybe this is precisely the way he should be feeling.

 

* * *

“Please send for Master Nori and Master Ori. I wish to have a word with them.”

As the young messenger leaves, Dis settles her cape over the back of an intricately-carved chair before facing Balin, who is waiting patiently in the far corner of the room. They are in a small study just outside the throne room, where the mob is still slowly dispersing.

“That was quite a show you put up there, Your Majesty”, Balin says, and try as she might, Dis cannot find any admonition in her advisor's voice. Worry, yes, but not reprimand. If anything, Balin seems concerned but proud. “You've planted rather many seeds. Now it remains to be seen what will become of them.”

Dis raises her chin in defiance, and she's never looked more like a queen.

“I remember you telling me to do as I feel I must. Do you regret your advice now, iraknadad?”

Balin shakes his head. “I just hope you know what you're doing, kandûna.” 

Dis's eyes soften. It has been a long time since Balin has called her that. Or anyone, as a matter of fact. Childhood nicknames tend to die out with time and distance, but Dis has always liked hers. It's always felt right.

“So do I, Balin”, she says. “So do I.”

They stay silent for a few beats, before Dis speaks again, out of the blue.

“I almost told him”, she says, and Balin frowns. “Bilbo”, Dis continues. “I almost told him about Thorin, yesterday. I called him to the throne room to tell him, but I didn't, in the end.”

“What stopped you?” Balin asks.

“I don't know. I...”

Dis looks so wretched that Balin is almost thankful for the interruption that comes in the form of a knock on the door, and the appearance of Nori and Ori.

The youngest Ri is clutching a leather-bound book to his chest, while his brother's hands never travel from their hiding place in the tunic pockets.

“Your Majesty”, they greet, and Balin thinks Dis bears the title rather well.

“Time to talk business?” Nori asks. Besides him, Ori sets the book onto the table and moves to stand by his brother again. Dis motions them all the sit, including Balin, and then moves to the head of the table.

“Yes, Master Nori. Time to talk business.”

And as Nori starts to speak, despite his words earlier, Balin feels like Dis knows precisely what she is doing.

 

* * *

There are no feasts on the night of the coronation, Dis said, and Bilbo for one is glad. His mood after the ceremony is the furthest thing possible from celebratory. If anything, he feels drained, like all the swelling of feeling that came in like the tide riding on the pull of Dis's actions and the songs that followed dwindled and seeped through the soles of his bare feet and into the relentless stone.

The ceremony itself ended soon after the impromptu rendition of _Far Over the Misty Mountains._ Dis left first, via a side-door, to a small adjoining room, with Balin on her heels, and after that the crowd started to disperse. The moment the doors closed behind the Queen, the rustling murmur turned into a right cacophony of voices pouring over what they've just witnessed. Bilbo took advantage of the general commotion to slip away, pushing his way through the mass of bodies and into the still-vacant hallway.

Once there, he finds himself at loss for where to go. With all his things already packed, he has nothing to do besides going to bed, but Bilbo's abilities of self-deception do not extend so far for him to be able to believe even for a minute that he will be sleeping tonight. The now-customary midnight cup of tea with Dis is not an option tonight, Bilbo knows, and that doesn't leave him with much. For a moment he considers seeking out one of his friends – he knows he'll probably find at least a part of them together tonight – but dismisses the idea quickly. As much as Bilbo appreciates them, they would only try to convince him to stay a bit longer, and he doesn't have it in him tonight to fend off their well-meant persuasion.

He wanders aimlessly through the empty corridors and tries to revel in the unusual quiet that envelopes the city. Tries and fails, that is, the silence having the exact opposite effect. It reminds Bilbo too much of the silence that hung in the cobwebs and hid under dark overpasses back when the mountain hosted only a dozen inhabitants, right after the dragon had been slain. Right after a completely different terror found its way into Bilbo's heart as he watched the cursed gold steal away Thorin's mind.

A night to let the mountain come to terms with the imminent change, Dis said. Come morning, Erebor will start anew. Come morning, Bilbo will let this adventure end. A new beginning and a beginning of the end. It's a lot to burden the rising sun with. But the sun, more than anything or anyone, should know about accepting the imminence of change. Thinking about this gives Bilbo an idea. He knows where he should go tonight. There are goodbyes to be said, and some can wait until tomorrow, but these are best taken care of now, however reluctantly.

The air grows colder as Bilbo ventures deeper into the mountain. By the time he reaches the burial chamber, he can see his breath in the air, escaping white and misty like ghosts of words unsaid. Words that died with the ones they were meant for.

He expects to be overwhelmed by the sight of the tombs, but any feeling at all is strangely absent as Bilbo approaches the three caskets. Try as he might, he cannot feel anything beyond the cold, here, at the very last page of this story he's been indulging in against all reason. He likes that metaphor, he thinks.

“I think one day I might write a book about all this”, Bilbo says a propos of nothing, standing by Fili's grave, his voice unnaturally loud and colourless. He doesn't reach out to touch the tomb. “Stories are always better than the real thing, don't you think?” he asks the silence. It doesn't answer, naturally. Bilbo stands still, eyes roaming over the carved statues, and waits for _something_ – anything – to hit him. Anything at all that would save him from the hollow feeling that he truly is only saying goodbye to empty air and nothing more.

“It would be a good one. An unexpected adventure, those always make for the best of stories. I think I shall end it with something fittingly dramatic...”, he rambles on, simply because he's got time to kill and at least the dead let him finish his sentences. “Something with a good ring to it. Worthy of the olden tales, I reckon. ' _Farewell Fili and Kili, may your memory never fade'_ sounds grand enough...”

And it never would, that way, Bilbo realises. Pressed between a book's pages like wild flowers, the young Durins would live forever. He wonders if he will ever get around to writing that book. How many years will have to pass before he finds the words to describe Fili's unwavering devotion and Kili's untameable zeal? One day...it's no necromancy, but a book, a story, a breathing thing of ink and paper and words strung together just so, must be a better tribute than this hall of stone that holds no trace of the way the princes used to laugh, tells nothing of the way they gave all they had whether in dance and song or in battle. They were too bright, Bilbo thinks bitterly, too bright and burned too strong. Such bright things are never allowed to stay long, lest the darkness of the world feels threatened. It must be a family trait – loving just a little too much, to the point of stupidity. Fili and Kili held more life between the two of them than the dead stone will ever be able to understand. Bilbo wishes for the sounds of plates breaking and dishes clanking, and this time he knows he wouldn't offer even a peep of complaint. Eru, he'd probably hand the plates to them himself.

And _this_ – this is the way he wishes to remember them. This is the memory that must never be allowed to wane.

'T _his is not where your memory rests_ ', Bilbo thinks, suddenly sure of one thing – here is not where he should be saying goodbye. So he walks back up, almost as if on a reverse tour – starting at the end and making his way backwards. Maybe he can walk back to the beginning, undo the ending.

He passes the dining room where they all sat those first days in the mountain, Kili still weak from his wound but already restless, and Fili, so much older than when they set out on their journey, watching his Uncle's empty spot with ancient eyes. Bilbo moves on quickly.

He navigates the corridors and memories they hold, until he reaches the open space before the gate. Gloin had told Bilbo how Kili stood up to Thorin here, demanding they fought. In the dim half-light, Bilbo can almost see it. He would feel proud, if only he didn't wish that Thorin kept them all huddled behind the wall of stone, safe and cowardly and alive.

He climbs onto the battlements next. He hasn't been here since he last left Erebor by sliding down a rope off this very wall, but tonight Bilbo chooses to ignore the dreaded memories in favour of recalling the way Fili and Kili and the rest stood by his side, disregarding their King's command to throw him over.

Bilbo looks out into the darkness. Dale glows on the hill and the moon paints the country in stark silver reliefs. He feels like he should say something, do something. There should be something more to this whole 'saying goodbye' business than just _feeling_. But anything he thinks of sounds too false or simply inadequate. Turning back towards the stairs, Bilbo decides to keep quiet and do the one thing he can. He chooses to remember.

At last, he makes it to the first corridor he's ever walked in Erebor – a place that is soon to be a site of legend, surely – and he walks slowly until he reaches the inner side of the hidden door that opens out onto the small ledge overlooking the West. The door is still invisible from the outside, but can easily be pushed open from within, and as long as he doesn't let it shut Bilbo knows he'll be able to go back in through it.

He barely manages to pull the heavy slab of stone inwards, and when he does, the cold winter air slashes into the warmth of the corridor, peppering Bilbo's feet with a few stray snowflakes. Ignoring the cold, Bilbo walks out, careful to wedge the door with a stone, lest it closes and leaves him stranded.

The ledge is completely and thoroughly unspectacular. To anyone else, it would look like barely more than a dent in the rocks rising sharply from the ground. To Bilbo, it is the place where he'd refused to give up when maybe he should have, where their quest could have withered and died if it were not for Bilbo's stubbornness. He is no longer sure if that was a good thing at all.

But more importantly, here is where they'd spent those excruciatingly long minutes looking at the setting sun in anticipation. Here Thorin's face lit up with disbelief and wonder, here his heart almost gave up – _had_ given up – after everything they've been through only to find strength for one last hope under the pale light of the last moon of autumn. Here Bilbo remembers him not as a crownless king, but as a wanderer finally returned home. Here, there is the memory of Thorin's face, his eyes, when the moon rose silver and bright and when the door had finally been pushed open – such infinite hope that for a moment, Bilbo'd believed everything would work out. And for that one moment, Bilbo likes to think Thorin felt at peace, or exhilarated, or simply happy. For one moment, things _were going well._ Things were going well, and Bilbo remembers Thorin looked surprised. And so very young. Hopeful.

Bilbo didn't cry when they told him about Thorin's death. He didn't cry when they left him afterwards, or when he moved to his room, or at the funeral. His was a grief beyond tears. But he cries now, here, recalling Thorin's surprised face and disbelieving hope. He cries for his friends who are all changed now, irreversibly. He cries for Ori's loss of innocence and the lightness that has forever fled Bofur's smile. He cries for Fili and Kili who died too young, and for Dis who lost too much.

He cries for Thorin. More than anything, he cries for Thorin, even though he is now in a place beyond pain or grief. He cries for Thorin anyway, because it's all he can do for him now, when he would have done – when he _had_ done – anything for him.

And in the end, the last tears he cries before they run dry, Bilbo Baggins cries for himself.

-

The Sun is rising as Bilbo walks through the shattered gates of Erebor the morning after the coronation. There is a chill in the air that smells of clean snow and frozen earth. The smell of blood has finally faded away, it would seem.

The stone beneath Bilbo's feet is smooth and cold, and beside him, Balin's words are soft and warm, proud and sad.

“You could stay a while longer.”

Bilbo shakes his head. “No, no it's quite time for me to go home.”

“There will be a great feast tonight”, Balin says, as if a feast would tempt Bilbo. The dead have been laid to rest, the Queen has been crowned, and now the living are due their celebration, but Bilbo does not feel like celebration. He isn't even sure if he feels like a part of the living, at all. “Songs will be sung, tales will be told, and Thorin Oakenshield will pass into legend.”

The mention of Thorin's name is like a stab to the heart, but Bilbo let's it pass.

“I know that's how you must honour him” he tells Balin, stopping to face the old Dwarf. “But to me he was never that. To me he was...” Once again, words flow away and run dry as Bilbo chases desperately after him. Just like the ones he'd wanted to carve into his runestone, these words remain out of reach. ' _He was everything I can't name'_ , Bilbo doesn't say. ' _He was the heart of the mountain, the lost prince home at last'_ is what Thorin was, but Bilbo knows Balin knows this. If Bilbo were made out of the rock that surrounds him, he'd find it in him to say _'he was lost, Balin. He was so lost to a place where I couldn't reach him. He was imperfect and flawed, but he was Thorin. He was never given a chance to grow old and as wise as I know he could have been. He was unhappy for so long. He was scared, I think, sometimes'._ But none of these things need saying. And none of these things are the right thing to say, because they are not what Thorin was _to Bilbo_.

“He was...”, he tries again, but fails. ' _He was alive',_ Bilbo wants to say, because out of all the things Thorin was to him, this is the one that mattered the most. This is the one Bilbo wishes was still true, in the present tense. Balin's eyebrows rise up as he watches Bilbo, understanding pouring out of his eyes.

Bilbo nods and tries to smile, but he looks away into the rising sun, hoping that Balin will not see how shortly he is able to fake it. All this fumbling reminds him that there was a question he'd wanted to ask Balin, and the distraction, however poor, is a welcome one.

“Balin...”

“Yes?”

“The runestone...the one I put on Th – ” Bilbo's throat closes and he swallows around the tightness, looks away. He can't look at Balin and the knowing look in the old Dwarf's eyes. He just can't. “I left it empty.”

“So you did.”

“Was that an unusual thing to do?”

“What makes you ask that, laddie?”

“Some of the others looked surprised, that's all.”

Balin sighs. “It is not unusual, not as such”, he says. Bilbo looks at him questioningly, and Balin goes on. “An empty stone is usually placed on the graves of the dead by their One, in cases when they have already been either openly courting or married.”

' _And you were neither of those things'_ , Bilbo's mind supplies ever-so-helpfully. Oh, but tell it to his heart, which twists not for the wrongness of his actions, but because of how right it feels, even now that Bilbo is aware of their meaning.

“Why didn't you tell me?”, he asks Balin. “Why didn't anyone tell me?”

And maybe Balin is in cahoots with Bilbo's traitor of a heart, because he speaks the words Bilbo wants to hear, needs to hear. The very words he absolutely can't stand to hear.

“Because it was real”, Balin says, causing a ragged laugh to escape Bilbo. It sounds closer to a sob, and Bilbo looks away, towards the spot where Gandalf is standing, waiting for him.

“Tell the others I said goodbye, will you?” he asks.

“You can tell them yourself.” Bilbo can hear the smile in Balin's voice and he turns to look back at the entrance to the mountain.

Standing there are his travel companions, his friends, all lined up like a true farewell committee. Dis stands with them as well, holding a lovely-looking book in her hands.

Despite everything, Bilbo can't help but smile. He ducks his head, trying to clear the tightness in his throat before he speaks.

“Um...if you ever pass through Bag End”, he begins. “Tea is at four. You are welcome anytime.”

He can barely stand to look at his friends' faces – some smiling and most teary-eyed – but the idea of looking away is even harder to bear.

“Don't bother knocking”, Bilbo says in the end, sending a ripple of laughter through the group, and if his voice breaks, no one mentions it. Dis steps towards him, smiling, and offers Bilbo the book.

“A few songs of our people”, she explains. “Poems, and a tale or two. To smooth over the rough times on the road.”

“Thank you”, Bilbo says, and means it. The book is beautiful...and obviously new, he concludes after thumbing through a few pages. The spine is still stiff and unbroken, and the ink as vivid as the feathers of a blue-jay, shaped into letters in a familiar hand.

“A true masterpiece, Ori”, Bilbo says with a smile, and is rewarded by the young Dwarf blushing to the tips of his ears. “Thank you”, he says again, because what else can he say? What other phrase summarises ' _you've made my life a tale worth telling',_ ' _I will sooner forget my own name than I will yours'_ and _'oh, I'm going to miss you terribly'_? He could speak for another day and not be done, Bilbo knows. So he says _thank you_ and trusts it to mean everything, turning away from his friends as he walks towards Gandalf.

“Master Baggins!”, someone calls his name – Dwalin, if Bilbo heard correctly – and he turns around once again, mentally checking if he'd forgotten anything. Surely, he'd taken his satchel, and Sting, and...oh.

“At your service!” his friends say in unison, bowing shortly. Bilbo's heart is an open wound.

“And I, forever at yours”, he replies.

They part ways then, and he follows Gandalf down the road that leads to Dale, and onwards. Bilbo does not look back, choosing the safer option of looking straight ahead. Even the sky seems wrecked and raw, but it is so bright that Bilbo is reminded, however reluctantly, that despite all the death that surrounds him, he is still alive.

 

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kandûna - wolf-lady  
> Maiklim, batshûna” - Be crowned, ancient silver-lady.  
> Maihrim, nâtha Durinul! - Be praised, daughter of Durin!
> 
> Amdâmu o'rid – comfort of the art of stone  
> Albâmu in – cleanliness of the art of river  
> 'ân ra'aban – river and stone  
> Naibriti - – change together  
> hikhthuzul - always


	3. You take the high road, I'll take the low road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much sorry for the delay, this gave me a bit of trouble. Promise the next chapter will be up sooner!

* * *

Months pass and Bilbo travels west. Without a company of thirteen others, several unplanned delays (and an imprisonment or two), and with a wizard at his side, the journey is much faster than the first time around. He and Gandalf walk to Dale first, to gather supplies for the road.

The city is still in shambles, but life, ever untameable, is already weaving its way into the cracks in the stone, and when Bilbo walks through the main square and then the market, both places are already teeming with voices bargaining for lower prices, and idle gossip to pass the day. The people of Laketown still look battered and underfed, but life has already moved on, it would seem. Children run through the streets, some wearing dented helmets and shrieking as they battle with sticks and wooden swords. Every army seems to be present in this little war of theirs – little Men with sling shots and would-be-elves with twigs in their tangled hair and makeshift bows fashioned out of yielding willow branches and thin strings of leather. Bilbo doubts they're very useful for shooting, but a child's imagination can do wonders, he knows. It is obvious playing orcs is not a popular chore, seeing as only a few little rascals seem to be making unarticulated noises and start to complain about their roles very quickly, demanding a switch. Fear has already fled the children, it would seem.

It is one way of dealing with everything, Bilbo supposes. Monsters are always less frightening when you can wear their skin in your mind and then shed it as easily as you slipped in it. Quite an effortless defeat. He wishes it was not an art reserved only for the youngest. The grown-ups, as it turns out, lost that particular skill somewhere along the way. Perhaps they left it behind along with monsters under the bed and boggarts in wardrobes. It is much harder to battle the monsters that live in the shadows of the mind than the shadows under beds.

Another swarm of little warriors rushes by, and Bilbo tries not to flinch when he hears the too-familiar shout of ' _Du Bekâr!_ _'_ ring out in a small, high-pitched voice. The child playing a dwarf looks nothing like Fili or Kili – in fact, it's a girl, charging at a group of 'orcs' with a few dirty youngsters trailing behind her, all waving what Bilbo assumes are supposed to be battleaxes – but the flash of pain that pierces through Bilbo's chest hurts no less for it.

' Stop it' , he wants to tell them. 'Stop it, it's madness. There's no glory in the young fighting ancient battles. No honour in their lives given away as payment for old mistakes.'

But the little army has already moved on, their battle-cries bouncing off the walls of buildings a street away, far too cheerful to be menacing.

The vivacity of Dale's narrow streets crowded with people borders on surreal, just days after the desolation brought on by Azog's troops, and as lovely as it is to see the city recovering, Bilbo finds himself yearning for peace and quiet.

Mirkwood offers a welcome change of scenery after that, now that the spiders have been banished and the shade under the canopy is no longer ominous. The sickly stench of dark magic is gone from the air, and under different circumstances, Bilbo supposes he would enjoy this place immensely. It is quite lovely – very green and wild, not as orderly as the beauty of Rivendell, but rather a lush, native sort. The fact that he does not get captured by an ill-tempered Elven King and avoids half-starving to death this time, helps the impression, in Bilbo's opinion.

He gets his wished-for quiet. Gandalf chats only occasionally, but mostly leaves Bilbo be, and between the two of them, conversation always remains shallow and dies down quickly. The silence is companionable enough, and Gandalf doesn't seem to mind, so Bilbo makes no attempt to change this. To be quite honest, it's too great an effort to make small-talk about the weather. The weather is exhausting. It's always there. One could go on talking about it over and over again.

As for peace, it does not come as easily as the quiet. Bilbo may have left the voices and commotion of Dale folk behind, but his own mind supplies him with a steady stream of unwanted thoughts, too-loud echoes, and too-vivid dreams. In the silence it is hard to keep his mind from wandering too far into itself. After a while he gives up on the idea of a good night's sleep, taking to reading through the book Ori made for him for comfort, making sure to stay well away from songs and legends of great kings. He reads the tales common to most races – slightly altered versions of the ones his mother used to tell him. It does not help that sometimes the more dramatic lines are not read in his own voice, not even in the confines of his own imagination, but one much deeper and very much impossible.

And after a while, another voice creeps into the wretched chorus in Bilbo's mind, whispering softly. It sneaks up on Bilbo, gentle and soft, a cold draft sweeping under the iron-hot mess of memories.

 

* * *

Months pass and Thorin travels east. Snow turns to spring rains by the time he reaches the place where the Celduin joins with Carnen, the Redwater river carrying iron-rich mud that gave it its name. If Thorin were to follow it upstream, he would reach the Iron Hills by midsummer. He wonders if Dain's made it back yet, taking his troops with him, or if he's stayed with Dis until the dwarves of Erebor finally returned from Ered Luin. It will take a few more months, Thorin calculates, before the last caravans reach the Lonely Mountain and his people are home at last.

He thinks of Dis and wonders if the raven crown is heavy upon her head, if the stink of dragon still taints her days. He wonders about Dwalin and if he's already training the few of their people who came with Dis in the Iron Hills caravan, and about the rest of his shield-brothers, whether their wounds have healed, whether they finally have some peace. He didn't think it would be this hard – not just missing them, but _not knowing_ if they are safe and sound, if they are healing. That's the problem with grand schemes – they almost always sound more painful in theory than they turn out to be in reality. Details, on the other hand, small and innocuous enough, are the things that pierce skin and burn behind eyelids when the lonely nights come and solitary days stretch on. Death is horribly uneventful in that aspect. So all Thorin is left with is wondering about the life left behind, about everything that was still living somewhere far away from him. Well, everything apart from one thing.

Thorin does not allow himself to wonder about Bilbo, and whether he is still in Erebor or if he's left for the Shire. If he is hale, if he still scrunches his nose when he laughs and fusses over menial things and worries too much about those unworthy of his care. Thorin's spent almost every night of his journey sternly _not_ wondering about any of this.

There are plenty other things to distract him during the day, of course; matters of food and shelter. It's not a kingly life, this wandering through the wilderness, but the rawness of such a life, stripped of all décor beyond the most basic needs, is refreshing. There's something primal about living each day being able to plan only a few steps ahead, and not really having to go beyond that, but Thorin finds a sacred simplicity in it.

As spring comes into bloom and the ground thaws, Thorin digs out roots and picks the early mushrooms. His supplies of dried meat keep, and he replenishes the rest in the smaller villages along the river's shore, trading his services as a smith for some fresh food where gold is not needed, or coins for salt and other small necessities. Fresh water there is in abundance – one of the perks of travelling along a river – and even when the April rains flush slit and muck from the mountains and muddy the flow, Thorin makes do with rainwater and molten snow.

He tries hunting once or twice – hare and other small woodland creatures – but stops after an incident with a wild boar. They stumble upon each other on the outskirts of a small thicket of trees, and Thorin is surprised to even see it – the forest is barely large enough to be called that, and surely not a place where a boar could live comfortable for too long. Remembering that the animal's temper and dangerous tusks, Thorin tries to take cover in the shrubbery until it comes within the range of his sword. It's a dangerous gamble for a bit of meat, he knows, with the risk of the animal injuring him instead of the other way around almost too high in comparison with the potential prize. But if the boar senses any danger, it does not show. Instead, it walks calmly until it is a few steps away from where Thorin is hiding, just out of reach, and Thorin can't help but feel as if the animal is looking straight at him, perfectly aware of his presence. He rises slowly from his crouch to face it, the hand holding his sword falling limply beside his body.

The boar's eyes are almost too sentient, and something in Thorin revolts at the idea of killing it. He scoffs at himself later on, irked by his own foolishness, but the lingering unease remains, the same deep-rooted hunch that stayed Thorin's blade. After that, Thorin's sword remains unsoiled by animal blood for a long time. Instead, he turns once more to the river, where there is plenty of fish to be caught.

He spends a day on the banks of the confluence, soaking up the fickle spring sun when it emerges from behind the soaked clouds and watching the swirling waters. As soon as Dale is properly rebuilt, trade will start down the river, if Bard has any sense. There has long been too little life in these parts.

Thorin takes advantage of the warm, fair weather to wash, and later allows himself a break, waiting for his clothes to dry. He goes about untangling his wet hair, his fingers cramping as he tries to straighten out the most stubborn of knots. Still, it's a simple enough job, now that his braids are gone. He'd undone them the third night after leaving Erebor. The mourning beads Dis had given him for Fili's and Kili's funeral he stashed in a small pouch that now hangs on a string around Thorin's neck. The other beads met different fates – the bead marking him as an heir of Durin lies somewhere on the bed of the Celduin, while his battle beads rest in one of the pockets of his rucksack, as a reminder.

It felt strange, at first. He hasn't gone without his braids for longer than a few hours since his Revelation day, when he was presented to the kingdom. Thorin doesn't even remember it, but he remembers his grandfather telling him about the significance of his braids.

 _'A braidless dwarf is a nameless dwarf'_ , he used to say. _'They are heritage, they will speak of your great deeds. They are memories. It is the greatest of shames for a dwarf to be stripped of his braids and beads, sigindashatû_ _.'_

Ahkâtu amrâb, Thror had called it. The idea of the soul. Identity. Thorin remembered his words with every unwinding of strands. He remembered them when the river swallowed up the silver bead he'd worn since he could walk without so much as a blink. He remembers them now, running careful fingers through his loose hair. It doesn't matter who he is or isn't here, in this place.

It's taken him just over two months to get this far, and Thorin estimates he'll reach the Sea in a month's time, give or take. There is no hurry this time, and even though he travels on foot, he makes good time for someone who is travelling in great part only for the sake of not standing still. By the time the last days of April roll around, Thorin expects to see the shore. But at the moment, the sun is warm and the ground is soft beneath him, and despite himself, Thorin drifts off, leaning against a boulder where his clothes are spread to dry.

And maybe the sun knows, or the proud rivers that flow past him, or the changing weather, but if they do, not one of them tells Thorin that he will not reach the shores of the inland Sea. Not by the end of this month, or the next, or many yet to come.

 

* * *

The Ring whispers to him in the night. By the time they reach Rivendell (two weeks short of three months to the day since they've left Erebor – the speedy travel from the edges of Mirkwood and over the Misty Mountains the courtesy of Gandalf's Eagles) it's become the last thing Bilbo hears before exhaustion finally overcomes him, and the first thing he wakes up to. Bilbo tries to pretend he does not hear it, but it calls out to him more and more, muddled words too hushed to discern but unmistakable in their appeal. With every passing day, the fear losing it grows, a cold, heavy dread in the pit of Bilbo's stomach when he thinks about being separated from the little band of gold. He's grown used to it, he tells himself. It's a memento. A keepsake from his travels.

None of this explains why only the Ring calls out to him, of course, while all the gold from Erebor remains suspiciously silent. Why the longer he listens to the whispers, the more he looks at everyone around him with narrowed eyes, yearning for a safe hiding place. Bilbo's become quite proficient in deception in these past months. Almost proficient enough to fool himself into actually believing the excuses he makes up for himself. Almost, but not quite.

After months of numbness, he feels again – a creeping suspicion, a hard-to-ignore intuition that things are going awry. Bilbo pretends not to hear the voice of his own reason trying to speak over that of the ring. To be quite honest, it's not a difficult thing to do. There is something about the voices we wish to hear being louder than the ones speaking unwanted truths. Or maybe just more easily heard.

Every night, before he settles into bed for another futile night, Bilbo slips on the ring. Just for a minute. Or ten. An hour at most, and only when the nights get particularly bad. Every night, Bilbo watches the colours drain away from the world as shapes grow hazy and muddled. It's comforting, in a way. He feels excluded from the world, and while it does not feel like home, it also doesn't _not_ feel like home, either. An in-between, that's what it feels like, Bilbo decides. A place out of time, like a cool shadow on a hot summer's day. A place out of life, to where he can side-step every now and then.

Before, when he first found the ring, Bilbo hated the feeling that came with wearing it. It felt odd, unnatural and intrusive. Like a hungry thing praying from the shadows. He felt displaced, too solid and opaque in the smudged scenery of the ring's realm.

But now, there is a hole somewhere in the general area of Bilbo's chest, and he no longer feels too solid. He feels pale, and with the ring on, the hollowness seems less, somehow. There used to be something there, in that empty spot. Something pulsing and alive, not always pleasant, but precious all the same. But now it's gone and the fogs of the world behind the ring's cloak of invisibility seep into the space left behind, filling the gaping absence, like dirty mudslide-water. And the more he listens, the less Bilbo feels the urge to resist the voice's calling.

The invisibility is a perk, too, of course. Makes it much easier to pass around unnoticed. Not that there's much need for that now. The elves leave him alone for most part, and even Gandalf knows how to take a hint, if one is given blatantly enough. Still, there is comfort in passing completely unnoticed, and with each passing day, Bilbo feels more comfortable with the ring on his finger than he does with it in his pocket.

He almost tells Gandalf about it, several times, but a voice, for which deep down Bilbo knows is not his own, warns him against it. Well, he's entitled to a secret or two of his own. Eru knows Gandalf's been keeping a few. Bilbo owes him nothing in that respect.

In fact, Bilbo thinks with surprising bitterness as he shuffles into bed, still dressed and not in the least convinced he'll be sleeping tonight, he doesn't owe anyone anything. He's given more than he was willing to let go of. And the few pieces that are left, he intends to hold onto.

 

* * *

“He's at the confluence. He seems to be following the river.”

Dis raises her head from the trading contract she's been studying for the past half hour to look at the arrival, whom she didn't hear coming despite the dead silence of the room. Nori's stealth has always been uncanny for a dwarf, so Dis stopped being surprised by him sneaking up on her ages ago. The middle Ri brother is leaning against her door, reporting to her, as was their agreement. Nori's reports are always short and to the point, but erratically delivered. Dis supposes this is to be expected, given their unorthodox methods of surveillance.

“Still eastbound?” she asks, setting down her quill and turning to face Nori.

“Yes.”

Nori doesn't ask if Dis knows or assumes where Thorin is headed, nor does he offer any ideas of his own, but he lingers at the door and that alone is sign enough that there is something amiss.

“Was there anything else?” Dis frowns. Nori is not the one for fibbing.

“He's getting out of reach”, he replies, and Dis notices how Nori never uses Thorin's name when reporting on him. In fact, many dwarves don't, including a fair part of the Company, as they came to be known in the mountain. For some reason, it makes Thorin's alleged death seem frighteningly more real than it is.

“The birds can't fly for such long stretches without rest and food, and with every day he travels farther, we risk losing track of him”, Nori continues, voicing the truth Dis was hoping they would be able to delay for a while longer.

“What of Radagast's animals?”, she asks.

“They're still with us. They seem to have developed some sort of relay system. None travel very far, but someone is always on the trail for a while, before they switch places and the message travels back to us.”

“Clever”, Dis nods.

“It is. But it's difficult for them to track him through those stretches of the path that lack forests. One of the boars had a close encounter, so to speak. Almost ended up as dinner.”

“I see.”

“If he continues much farther...” Nori trails off.

“He won't”, Dis says after a short pause. “I can't be certain”, she continues when Nori raises a questioning eyebrow, “but I think he is headed for the Inland Sea.”

Nori frowns but does not ask for explanations. It is one of the things Dis appreciates about her chief informant. Nori never pushes her for information unless he deems it absolutely necessary. Even if he did ask now, Dis can't offer him more than a hunch and a handful of happy memories.

“We can't stop, Nori”, Dis hopes no desperation shows in her voice. “We'll just have to find a way to keep going.”

“We followed him across several lands with naught but a foolish hope and a few swords, Your Majesty”, Nori reminds her. “Do you really think we are about to abandon him now? We'll find a way.”

' _How loved you are, nadad',_ Dis thinks. _'Do you even know?'_

“My brother is stubborn, Master Nori”, she warns, but she is smiling lightly. “This self-imposed exile of his could last rather a long time.”

Apparently, something she says turns out to be funny, because Nori breaks into a low chuckle.

“Battle rams are stubborn, my lady”, he says. “And still they've got nothing on your brother. I've seen mountain ranges more likely to yield than him. But even stone is worn away over time. Not that I need to tell _you_ this”, Nori finishes with a meaningful look, the ' _of all people'_ part going unsaid but very much heard.

“That takes time”, Dis says.

“Or just a weak spot”, Nori replies.

“Or that, yes”, his Queen agrees. And really, she never expected things to be simple. After all, it is Thorin they're talking about. “Any word from the caravan?”

The exiled dwarves of Erebor have been on the road from Ered Luin for a couple of months already, making slow progress back to their homeland. For now, luck's been on their side, with no troubles bothering them in the course of their journey.

“I have word that they've reached the planes of Hithaeglir. They should reach the Mountains soon, and then it's a month or so until they arrive. Your instruction to follow the river through the Elven King's woods has been passed on. The leader of the caravan, Thira I believe her name is, was not very happy with it. Said it will make it hard for the carts to be brought.”

“I do not wish them to travel along the upper perimeter of the forest. It takes them far too close to Gundabad for my comfort. And Thira knows that very well.”

“Oh, I don't think she would mind a few orcs to play with. I reckon your Captain of the Guard is getting a little restless, playing shepherd to the caravan, Your Majesty”, Nori smirks.

“Oh, she's been restless ever since you lot left Ered Luin”, Dis snorts in a rather unladylike manner. “Didn't have much to do once you were gone on the quest. No trouble to hunt down, and just as she lost Dwalin to boss around, too.”

“I fear she will laugh her beard off when she finds out you got Dwalin to sit in on your councils”, Nori says. “Dwalin and diplomacy mix worse than dwarfs and tree-shaggers.”

“Which is precisely why I didn't name him ambassador to Rivendell or the Woodland Realm”, Dis replies. “But Dwalin is an experienced warrior, and a loyal friend. It would be unwise of me not to rely on his knowledge of war strategies and best ways to fortify and secure Erebor. Besides”, she adds, “he's been less quick on harsh words than I expected. I think Thorin leaving took some fire out of Dwalin's forge, so to speak. This is not quite the Erebor he dreamt of. Not quite the Erebor any of you fought for.”

“But it's the Erebor we have, and it's better than what we had before”, Nori states firmly. Dis carries the weight of the kingdom so well that sometimes everyone forgets the losses she suffered. Not once did the Company sit together in the evening, quietly sharing comfort that can be found in common sorrow over the ones they've all lost, but not Dis. Between commanding the repairs, establishing connections with the neighbouring Dale and Mirkwood, and worrying over Thorin, Nori doubts the Queen had any time to properly mourn. And no one seems to notice this, outside their little tightly-knit circle.

Nori was never surprised by Thorin leaving, but now, looking at his sister giving her everything to the mountain and its people, Nori feels a spike of anger. He would lay down his life for Thorin, just as he would for Dis or anyone from the Company, now and always, but there is no denying that his King is one of the most short-sighted creatures he's ever met. Blinded by his grief and guilt, Thorin barely considered what he was leaving behind, so very convinced they were all better off without him.

“I will speak to Radagast about the animals travelling farther”, he says, taking his leave. “Hopefully your brother will come to his senses sooner rather than later. And who knows, maybe the Skin-changer will be willing to lend a hand. Or a paw.”

That draws a smile from Dis, and Nori counts it as a victory. He likes his Queen, likes her blindness to the differences in status and bloodlines, and the way she gives her respect based on merit instead of history and sins of fathers. When one speaks to Dis, they never feel like she's standing on a dais above them.

“Your Majesty”, Nori quips from the doorway. “This may not be the Erebor we expected, but never doubt, this is the Erebor we will help you rebuild.”

 

* * *

Rivendell at night looks much like the way its name sounds rolling off one's tongue – all silver and blue, sleek and clear. It is late, well past midnight, and the elves have all gone to bed by now. The torches have been put out, but for the few on the guard's posts, and the balcony where Gandalf sits, smoking his pipe, is bathed in bluish shadows and pale, cold moonlight.

A calmness, distinctly elvish in its nature, shrouds the place, the only sounds that disrupt the silence coming from the soft murmuring of the river below and the gentle whispers of trees. As he sends smoke rings sailing into the air, Gandalf hopes the serenity of Elrond's home will mean a peaceful night for his travelling companion.

He's been keeping an eye on Bilbo over the course of their journey. The hobbit's been more quiet than usual, keeping up small-talk mechanically and smiling in all the right places in the conversation, but the smiles never reached his eyes. He seemed to Gandalf to have aged a century since the Battle ended. The silent days were almost regularly followed by sleepless nights. Sometimes Bilbo would manage to drift off, only to startle awake not soon after. Gandalf never asked, and Bilbo never offered any words on the subject, only coming to sit by Gandalf quietly, often with a pipe in hand. Most nights, though, Bilbo didn't even bother trying to fall asleep, obviously recognising it to be a futile attempt, and would sit up awake long into the night, lost in thought. Gandalf would usually find him with the morning light, passed out with fatigue. At first Gandalf was sure the restlessness was caused by grief and memories of recent events. But lately, Bilbo's behaviour's been getting more...odd. Well. Time will tell, Gandalf decides. And if it doesn't, then Gandalf supposes he'll just have to ask. But not now. Not yet. Not while the wounds are still so fresh.

Gandalf meant it when he warned Bilbo that he would not return from his journey unchanged. This, however, was not the outcome Gandalf hoped for. 'Changed', however, was not a strong enough word for what Bilbo was now. He'd tempted Bilbo along in order to rattle him up a bit, feed him adventures and tales to tell. Among other reasons. But the foolish creature had gone and gotten himself heartbroken somewhere in the midst of it all. Not that Gandalf can blame him. Not at all.

In all his years, Gandalf has learned many things and he had taught many. He learned the languages of various races of Arda, and the weak spots of each – the haughtiness of Elves, the greed of Dwarves, the short-sightedness of Men – just as he taught his share to each. He'd lived for long – too long, he thinks sometimes – and seen great kings and queens rise and fall, nations conceived and uprooted. But there was always one skill he never quite managed to grasp, one thing that often threatened to be his downfall.

In all his years, Gandalf's learned many things, but not how to stop himself from caring and how to ward off the ache that comes from seeing the suffering of friends. Suffering which, most of the time, is inevitable. That is his burden – to care for those he knows he must use for purposes greater than any one man alone. What a horrible thing it is to care for the perishable. But even so, Gandalf would not do without it. Not when it is the individual hearts and minds that remind him of his purpose in Arda, and not the faceless masses.

Which is really why he should have seen this coming. Bilbo's hidden depths were the exact reason why Gandalf chose him as the fourteenth member of Thorin's company. Bravery and loyalty, combined with a temper and conviction. Indeed, he should have known Bilbo would do things his way. He expected him to. Only, not quite like this. But as always, he managed to underestimate the unpredictability of the heart.

Gandalf heaves a sigh, reaching into one of the endless pockets of his robe to re-fill his pipe. Rivendell will do Bilbo good. He likes it here, always has. They can spare a few days, and Elrond is not one to turn them away. After all, they are no longer on a quest of any sort, questionable or no. Just two weary travellers in need of a respite. Nothing threatening about that all.

Indeed, in the calm night such as this one, it is hard to believe the world is anything but perfectly peaceful. And hopefully, so is Bilbo, if only for a night. But all hopes of the hobbit sleeping through the night disperse at the approaching sound of soft, bare-footed steps.

“Bilbo, my dear fellow”, Gandalf greets. “Having trouble sleeping?”

“The bed is too soft”, Bilbo replies, settling in a chair next to the Wizard, and Gandalf can't decide if it's meant as a joke or not, despite the wan smile Bilbo manages to scrounge up. It would be unkind to let his effort go to waste, the Wizard decides, and chuckles indulgently. The cheer is as misplaced as a dawn-gazing troll, false and hollow, but if there's anything wizards are good at, it's pretending to be oblivious.

“That's a far cry from something you would have said a year ago. I can't, for the life of me, imagine _that_ Bilbo Baggins complaining about soft beds”, Gandalf says, aiming for levity. Apparently his aim is not as good as he remembers, because all he gets in return is a short snort and a head shake.

“No, he wouldn't have, would he?” Bilbo says, looking not at Gandalf, but out over the railing. The moon is very bright and very deceitful. Under its light, it is hard to believe there is a single foul thing in the world. The moon, Bilbo decides, is like an epic tale. A beautiful liar. “Well, you did say I would not come back the same. There you have it.”

The despondence in Bilbo's voice is very much at odds with his usual temper – both the joviality and the barely-contained hotheadedness – but there is an undercurrent there, a vein of steel that makes for quite a novelty. If Gandalf didn't know better, he'd call it anger.

“Still, I should hope you're not as changed as to refuse some Old Toby?” he offers warmly, testing the waters. That earns him a proper smile this time, small but sincere, and Gandalf can't help but admire this innate contrariness of his friend – a sincere smile and steel-capped words, all equally true, offered within a breath's length of each other. He's never met anyone like Bilbo Baggins. And no one's ever surprised Gandalf more.

The hobbit accepts the tobacco pouch, stuffing his own pipe full of the fragrant leaf. They sit and smoke in tentatively companionable silence, with Bilbo staring straight ahead, shoulders tense and jaw clenched just a bit too tightly to simply be lost in thought, while Gandalf steals glances at him.

It's not the first time they've done this, shared a pipe and some companionable silence in the wee hours that are closer to morning than night. But something is different tonight. The silence is less companionable, and Bilbo's shoulders never relax from their hard, tense line, no matter how many puff of smoke he draws. This is a night for some explanations, it would seem.

“You never told me how you came to travel with the Company in the first place, Gandalf”, comes Bilbo's voice, strangely aloof again.

“Oh, you know”, the Wizard waves his hand. “It was just one of those lucky coincidences. A chance meeting. A family heirloom left for safekeeping. Thrain's key was never mine to start with. The signs began and several of the Company read them. It was my duty to return what was trusted unto me to its rightful owner. Besides,” Gandalf smiles, “I've always had a soft spot for unlikely successes, I will have you know.”

Bilbo looks utterly unimpressed.

“If you're going to lie to me, you should at least try to do it better than an average Took trying to muddle their way out of a fresh mess.”

Gandalf frowns and speaks around his pipe. His incredulity is just tad too shocked to be sincere.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Whose idea was it to reclaim Erebor, Gandalf?”

Bilbo's eyes are pale and unnerving in the ethereal silverish light of the Rivendell night, and Gandalf finds he has some trouble meeting the hobbit's gaze.

“You know, one day you might just convince me wizards are the thickest folk in Middle-earth”, Bilbo continues and his words are unusually cold. “But, as it stands, I know for a fact that you are not. Just as _you_ know what I meant. I will not spell it out for you, Gandalf. As it happens, I have proof that you are very good at spelling – and spells. I distinctly remember you writing a rune spell on my door. That's what started this whole mess. So, I think you can work out this one on your own.”

Gandalf can't help but smile, even though he knows he shouldn't. It is nice to see Bilbo hasn't lost his spark, after all. Sturdy little things, hobbits.

“If I recall correctly, it was Thorin's name on that contract you signed.”

“I know perfectly well what I've signed, thank you very much. But that's not what I asked.”

Ah. It would seem fibbing was not an option tonight. Not that _that_ ever stopped Gandalf from giving it one last go.

“As you are well aware, when Oin read the signs, Thorin summoned all Dwarf folk to a meeting in the Iron Hills, to call upon them to join his quest. This was long time coming, my dear fellow, so I decided the moment was right to reveal to Thorin the legacy his father left me with....”

“And who told them about the signs?” Bilbo's stare is unrelenting when Gandalf finally meets it. He wasn't far off thinking it was anger in Bilbo's voice, but what a gross underestimation that was. “Because here's what I think, Gandalf. I think you meddled, just as you always do. Just as you did with me.” Bilbo's eyes are ablaze with cold fury. Helpless fury in the eyes of a cornered creature. “And if you hadn't, then maybe...”

“Maybe what?”, Gandalf interrupts. He knows where this is going, and he knows it won't lead them anywhere. “Maybe Thorin would have forgotten all about his stolen homeland? Maybe he would have settled for living in a borrowed place for the rest of his days, a crownless king of an exiled people? Maybe Fili and Kili would have grown up to be nothing more than sister-sons of a smith, forsaking their birthright? Maybe they would have stayed in Ered Luin, far away from Erebor and Smaug and – ”

“Yes”, Bilbo breathes, and, oh, how easily fury melts away to reveal the desperation beneath. “Yes, maybe they'd still be alive.”

“Oh, Bilbo”, Gandalf replies gently. “We both know that's not true.”

Bilbo finally looks away, swallowing around the words still trapped in his throat. All fight seems to leave him, and he is left looking deflated and painfully fragile.

“I haven't caused anything to happen that wouldn't have happened anyway”, Gandalf continues. “Merely ensured that it happened at a time when at least there was a window of opportunity, however small.”

“Well, no way to tell now, is there...” Bilbo replies, but there's no bite to it. “I know, Gandalf”, he sighs. “I know. After all”, he smiles ruefully, “I've played my part in this whole mess, too.”

“And you've played it well. Better than anyone expected, I dare say”, Gandalf reassures him. Or tries, at least, since it doesn't seem to be working, if Bilbo's haunted face is any indication. Oh, well, that just won't do, the Wizard concludes.

“Do you know, that first night in Bag End, Thorin said something to me”, he says. “He said he would not be responsible for your fate, nor could he vouch for your safety.” ' _And look at him now, ignoring his own words and attempting just that in his own misguided way, foolish dwarf'_ Gandalf thinks, but doesn't say. If only he could.

“Yes, well, we didn't precisely have the warmest of introductions”, Bilbo replies drily, causing his companion to chuckle.

“That you did not, but that was not what I was trying to say. In his own way, Thorin was right. He couldn't have vouched for your destiny”, Gandalf takes the pipe out of his mouth and levels Bilbo with a knowing stare. “Just as you are not responsible for his.”

Bilbo swallows.

“Well, maybe someone should have been.”

“Of course someone was. Thorin was.”

“Someone other than him.”

“Why?”

' _Because he always seemed to think he was responsible for the fates of so many. And no one remembered to tell him otherwise'_ , Bilbo thinks. Well, that's not quite true. Some tried to tell him – Balin, Dwalin, every member of the Company, in some way or another – but Thorin's always been good at not listening. ' _Because I tried to save him from himself, and it still wasn't enough.'_

“Because it was worth at least trying.” _He was worth it._

“Was it now?” Gandalf's voice is too knowing for Bilbo's liking, and he stares defiantly at the Wizard.

“It's what...friends do, is it not?”

Gandalf's eyebrows shoot up, but he does not comment, neither on Bilbo's hesitation nor the blatant lie of what Thorin was to him. And what he was to Thorin.

“You know, you haven't called him by name since we've left Erebor”, he says instead.

Oh, it's a low blow, and they both know it. It's also true, indisputably so. Looking back, Bilbo doesn't remember stopping.

“Leave it be, Gandalf.”

Gandalf takes in the tired lines of Bilbo's face and the obvious strain with which he keeps his voice from breaking, and for the first time in a long time, does as he's told.

“What will you do once you return to the Shire?”, he asks instead.

Bilbo shrugs. “Tend to my garden, I guess. Let the world be, for a while, and hope it does the same with me, in return.”

“Well, I wish you the best of luck with that”, Gandalf guaffs. “Sounds like quite a feat.”

“I've got my armchair. And my books. Apparently, my books are the one place where I will not find the world. A nosy, meddling wizard once told me that”, Bilbo shoots him a look.

“Did he now?” Gandalf mumbles.

“He did. So, as long as I stay inside and stick to the pages, perhaps I'll be left well alone.”

“Watch out, my friend. A rumour may start in the Shire that your adventures have made you unsociable. Very unbecoming trait on a hobbit, I am told.”

Gandalf's teasing earns him a snort as Bilbo stands up to empty his pipe.

“Bebother them all”, he says. “I am certain they're already spinning tales anyway. Let them. I doubt they can come up with one that could hold a candle to the real thing.”

“Oh, I don't know. I've learned never to underestimate the resourcefulness of hobbits”, Gandalf retorts, tilting his head and shooting Bilbo a look.

“Daft old wizard”, the hobbit replies, but his tone is fond, even despite the tired lines of his face and the dark shadows beneath his eyes, and Gandalf feels a surge of affection for his friend.

“Is there anything I can do for you, my dear fellow?”, he asks.

“Unless you can command time, no, I don't think so. And something tells me time obliges even less to your powers than the weather”, Bilbo teases, and Gandalf smiles.

“Quite right.”

“Well. I should really get back to bed”, Bilbo says, but he stays and lingers at the railing, staring at the scenery below. Gandalf watches him for a little while before he decides to push things along a bit.

“Was there anything else?”

Bilbo flinches, almost as if he forgot he was not alone, and turns to face the Wizard. The look in his eyes is indecipherable.

“Gandalf...”

“Yes, Bilbo?”

Bilbo hesitates, scratching the back of his leg with the foot of the other. His fists clench and unclench once by his sides as he weighs a decision of some sort. But then his face tightens into one of those painful smiles again, and with a small shake of head, he seems to dismiss whatever words he was about to say.

“Nothing. Good night, Gandalf.”

“Let's hope it will be”, Gandalf murmurs as he watches Bilbo's retreating back, and it's a fool's hope at best.

 

* * *

Dawn finds Bilbo roaming Elrond's gardens. Spring in Rivendell is a sight to behold. The air itself feels like it's blooming, fragrant and glistening with a fine mist that rises off the waking ground. The splashing of water is what leads him to the great fountain on one of the terraces. Looking at it, Bilbo is struck by the strongest urge to laugh, and the feeling is so surprising that he feels disoriented for a moment or two, which is why when Gandalf finds him, he is seated on the lip of the lowest pool, idly fiddling his right hand through the water.

“I'm surprised Lord Elrond didn't cover it in shrubs and vines, to be quite honest”, Bilbo says instead of a morning greeting, nodding at the fountain. Gandalf follows his gaze and frowns.

“And why is that?”

“Well, I can't imagine the memory of a dozen naked dwarves using it as a communal bath is one he particularly enjoys.”

Gandalf's laughter booms through the morning air, hearty and honest, and soon Bilbo can't help but join in. His face hurts, as if his muscles forgot how to do it, the sound of his own laughter almost foreign to Bilbo, but he can't stop. He laughs until there are tears on his cheeks and he is doubled over, his ribs aching as he gasps for breath. It's utterly ridiculous and marvellously alive. It's Bilbo saving at least his own life, when he could not save anyone's else's. And if it borders on hysterical, it doesn't matter, because laughing like this Bilbo feels his soul being scraped clean, if only slightly, the grime of grief slowly lifting. It's only a momentary reprieve, but it's a start.

“I've never seen the elves looking so shocked”, Bilbo wheezes, his laughter dying down to hiccupy giggles. “They looked like they'd rather fight orcs again. Positively scandalised, they were.”

“At least the orcs had the decency to wear loincloths”, Gandalf replies, sending them both into another fit of laughter.

“I don't think I'm sorry, you know”, Bilbo says after they've both calmed down a bit, wiping stray tears from the corners of his eyes. “For coming along. I thought long about it, and I...I can't tell yet, but I think in time, despite everything, I will come to find that I am not sorry that I ran out my door that day.” He looks away from Gandalf, at the ripples forming on the water's surface. “How could I be, when I got to know them? All of them”, he adds, so quietly that Gandalf suspects it's an escaped thought, never meant to be voiced.

“You asked me yesterday if there was anything you could do for me. If the offer still stands...”

“Of course.”

“Is there a magic that will stay decay?”

Gandalf's expression darkens.

“Bilbo, the dead can't-”, he starts, but Bilbo interrupts, waving his hand in dismissal.

“I know that, Gandalf,” he says. “Trust me, I wasn't thinking of anything as ominous as that. It's just that I have something that I'd much like to plant in my garden once I'm back home, and well, to be honest, I'm not sure it will make it there without a little help.”

At that, Bilbo draws an acorn from his waistcoat pocket, scratched and somewhat abused by their time on the road. Gandalf stares, struck for a moment with the weight of meaning stored in the little nut in Bilbo's palm, and opens his mouth to say something, but the look in Bilbo's eyes stops him. The acorn in his hand looks as heavy as a stone, and the strain shows on the hobbit's face. In a matter of speaking, Gandalf supposes it weighs much more than that. What is the average weight of countless 'what if'-s?

“Hm, I see”, he says instead. “I'm sure there is something to be done about it. Although, I must warn you, I am not as good with this sort of thing as Radagast.”

“That's alright”, Bilbo answers. “Anything you can manage. It's not a long way now, anyway. A few weeks at best, and then I'll be back in my garden, and this”, he closes his fist around the acorn and lifts it, “will be safe in the ground.”

Bilbo wonders if Gandalf sees the irony-that-isn't, in his words. Funny, that the first thing he shall do upon returning home is arrange another burial. In his defence, the one he attended was not to his taste at all.

“In that case, I shall try my best”, the Wizard says, reaching for the acorn. For a moment, Bilbo doesn't want to let go of it. But he does, in the end, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his waistcoat, where his fingers busy themselves by fiddling with the ring.

Gandalf mumbles a few words that Bilbo doesn't catch, and for a few seconds the acorn is illuminated by bright white-blue light, before it settles into its brown unassumingness once again.

“That should do, I think”, Gandalf nods, satisfied. “I do think, Bilbo, that an oak will be a lovely addition to Bag End”, he concludes, only to find out exactly what the weight of countless 'what if'-s is. It's the emotion in Bilbo's eyes, too complicated for a simple sorrow. It's the weight of an entire being carrying within it all the once-possible lives of another.

“Yes”, Bilbo clears his throat, looking away. “Thank you, Gandalf. Shall we find some tea?”

“Most certainly.” Because what's there left to be done? And in a world full of peril and uncertainty, one can only ever truly rely on a good cup of tea.

 

* * *

May rolls around on a wave of unexpected heat and endless sunny days. Thorin's lips are chapped and dry, his face tanning more with each passing day. Even the shade between the trees seems diluted, paler. It would be easy to hunt on days like this, if Thorin had any interest in that sort of thing.

It is on one such day that Thorin spots the cottage a bit farther up the road. After weeks spent sleeping under naught but stars and the occasional tree canopy, a bed under his body and a roof over his head seem like a great idea to Thorin. The road is peaceful and empty as he makes his way over.

Which, of course, should have been Thorin's first warning. He, out of everyone in the world, should have learned by now that good things only last as long. And he's been having a friendly road under his boots for a long time now.

It is, indeed, a good day for hunting. Or, as it turns out, being hunted.

The last thing Thorin has time to properly pay attention to is an old woman exiting the cottage. She seems to spot him and raises her hand, as if in greeting. Thorin is about to cross the remaining distance and inquire over paying for a bed for the night. It's a simple thing to do, really.

So, of course, that's when the Orcs come crashing in.

 

* * *

Early May sun paints the Shire greener even than in Bilbo's memories. The very grass seems mild and welcoming, tickling Bilbo's feet and ankles as he walks side-by-side with Gandalf over the small clearing where he once came chasing after a party of rude, stubborn, loyal, marvellous dwarves, his contract fluttering on the air behind him like a dragon's tail, and proclaimed himself their Burglar.

“Ah, the borders of the Shire”, Gandalf says, coming to a stop. “It is here I must leave you.”

Bilbo turns to face him, adjusting his cloak and rucksack.

“That's a shame”, he says, offering a small smile. “I quite liked having a wizard around. It seems they bring good luck.”

But Gandalf just levels him with a look. Bilbo doesn't like that look. It's that I-know-more-than-you-think-I-do-Bilbo-Baggins look.

“You don't really suppose, do you”, Gandalf begins, “that all your adventures and escapes were managed by mere luck. Magic rings should not be used lightly, Bilbo.”

Bilbo starts to argue, but Gandalf continues.

“Don't take me for a fool, I know you found one...”

“No”, Bilbo concedes. Gandalf may be many things, but a fool he is not. Even he does a really good impression of one from time to time.

“In the Goblin tunnels, and I've kept my eye on you ever since.”

“Well, thank goodness.” Bilbo smiles again, and the strain in his expression can easily be blamed on the sun shining too brightly at his face. In his pocket, he feels the ring's weight far too acutely. “Farewell, Gandalf.”

He puts out his hand, ignoring the rings whispers the best he can.

“Farewell.”  
Gandalf shakes his hand, and Bilbo turns and starts walking off. He stops after a few paces and turns back again.

“You, uh...you needn't worry about that ring, it fell out of my pocket during the battle. I lost it.”

Gandalf's face is unreadable, but Bilbo's gut tells him this was not his most convincing performance. He wants to grab the ring, make sure it's still there. Hide it away from Gandalf or anyone else who might want to take it.

“You're a very fine person, Mr Baggins”, Gandalf says. “And I'm very fond of you. But you're only quite a little fellow in a wide world after all.”

And with that he turns away and leaves, leaving a slightly confused and uneasy Bilbo standing on the sun-freckled meadow. Well then.

The path to Bag End is as familiar as the lines criss-crossing over his palm, and Bilbo follows it without paying much attention, once again lured into the flurry of his thoughts. Really, his mind is not a very hospitable place these days. Very rude of it, very improper.

It's not until he is almost home that he sees the river of hobbits flowing from his front door, carrying with them what looks suspiciously like his mother's glory box, his second best set of cutlery, and...is that his candelabra?

The auction is loud and lively and completely obsolete seeing as he is, in fact, alive, thank you very much, as he makes sure to tell everyone gathered, _very_ loudly, including Lobelia. _Especially_ Lobelia, come to think of it. And for a moment, he feels much like his old self, irritation coming as naturally to him as hunger. It's oh-so-easy to get lost in the pettiness of it all. Silver spoons, indeed.

But that's the problem with moments – they pass.

“Who is this person you've pledged your services to?”, Tosser Grub ask and all the flurry and commotion of his home being practically robbed right in front of his very eyes doesn't matter anymore as Bilbo watches the auctioneer's eyes flit over the bottom of the contract, reading the name there. ' _Don't say it',_ he thinks. _'Please, don't say it aloud.'_

“ _Thorin Oakenshield_?”, Grub says, the heavens ignoring Bilbo's silent pleas. And, oh, how wrong it sounds. How badly the name falls of the hobbit's lips, pronounced awkwardly, like a misspelled word in a storybook. Well, the books can have it then. Maybe one day Bilbo will find in them the answer to the question that's remained unanswered since the day he left the burial rune stone empty.

“He...he was my friend”, Bilbo replies, and never have words fallen more devastatingly short of the truth. They still feel like a cord is being wrenched out of Bilbo's core, some painful thread being plucked by uncaring fingers. He just wants everyone to leave, to stop saying names that should be left alone, to stop touching things that still carry invisible prints of lost fingertips and hands that Bilbo wishes he could press his own to. He wants to slip on his ring and let it all fade away.

But he doesn't. Of course he doesn't. There's some propriety in him left, manners fed into him with mother's milk probably. He's still a Baggins of Bag End, after all. Or maybe he's just too tired. Either way, Bilbo pushes open his front door (green still, and unmarked) and is greeted by the familiar sight of his foyer.

The birds behind his back chirp all too cheerfully to be considered proper. Bilbo takes a step through his front door. The floor is cool under his tired feet, the rooms empty around him. There is dust on every window sill, dust floating in rays of sunlight, dust in the cracks between the wooden panelling. Bilbo's eyes itch. There's dust in his lungs, dust coating his tongue, dust of the road and of a love grown stale in the absence of beating hearts. He trades it for that of a waiting home. Breathes it out and breathes in a year's worth of being away. Peaceful dust. Simple dust, with no ashes in it. And only a few ghosts.

His mother's portrait hangs crooked on the wall, and Bilbo reaches out to fix it, on a reflex. He finds his handkerchief in the desk drawer, the initials standing out red and bold against the white fabric, like blood on snow. Blood on ice. Bilbo closes his eyes at the thought, one hand falling to his pocket to touch the ring that resides there.

It's over. He is home.

Or at least that's what he so desperately wants to believe.

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sigindashatû = grandson of mine


	4. Find me lost in my traveling mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I ever tell you I'll update soon, don't trust me, I'm lying (mostly to myself). Real life made sure I couldn't write at all last week, but with no further excuses, here's chapter 4. I hope 17k words makes up for the long wait.

* * *

The orcs sprout out of nowhere.

One moment Thorin is headed towards the cottage by the road, and the next, a party of six orcs bursts from the shade of trees. They're all on foot, with no sign of wargs anywhere, but that's only a small mercy, seen as each is armed to the teeth and apparently just in the right mood for some Dwarf.

“Back inside! Bolt the door!” Thorin shouts over his shoulder to the old woman. He draws his sword from where it is sheathed on his back. It's new, yet-to-be-named if Thorin finds an ounce of will to care about such trivia. Both Deathless and Orcrist lie stored somewhere back in Erebor, far too recognisable for Thorin to be carrying them with him. The new sword is simple and efficient, with a symmetrical guard and blade, and a grip that ends in a block-like pommel. The fuller down the length of the blade is wider than that on Elvish swords and certainly not as elegant, but that does not stop the blade from cutting into the first orc that comes close enough with practised ease.

"Mirdautas vras”, Thorin catches one of the orcs to his right saying. The whole pack cackles, or at least Thorin supposes the sound they make is what passes as laughter with orcs. Either way, it's not a pleasant sound in the least, sounding too much like gurgling blood.

“Ma ajag na Shire”, another growls back, a wicked twist of amusement colouring his voice.

Thorin can't make out the words properly, the foreign tones of Black Speech harsh and unyielding, cutting the softness of the spring day. That's alright by Thorin, really. He is much more interested in making sure none of the creatures ever speak again than he is in eavesdropping on their quips. Besides, there isn't much that he can hear over the beating of his heart and the rush of his blood.

The orcs surround him, rapidly closing in from all sides, but Thorin wields the sword as if he's had practice every day since leaving Erebor, instincts and muscle-memory overriding months of disuse. The sword is heavy in his hands and his arms burn with effort, sweat beading on his brow under the heat of the midday, but for the first time in months, Thorin's mind is blissfully straight-forward. There is nothing beyond the next movement of his sword, no consequences to consider beyond the momentum of the blade and the time he will have to strike the next blow. There's no strategy to it at all. Thorin fights with all he's got as if he hasn't got anything much at all, no losses to be counted later on. It's savagely and wild and completely unsustainable in the long run. But it's simple, stripped down to the most basic of sensations – heat, and pain, and strain – a blessed respite from the convoluted messes of longing, and guilt, and love.

His thoughts are too slow for the rate at which the fight is going, running into each other before they melt into the next, and after a while all of them die down into a flurry of motion and the iron smell of blood and grime. Thorin's sword gleams in the sunlight and for a while it seems like he might just make it out a victor. He kills three orcs before a blow to his thigh sends him staggering backwards.

The gash is shallow but it spans almost along the whole length of Thorin's thigh and it's enough to break his focus. He can hear the orcs' victorious howl. Then there is a skirmish around him, but Thorin pays it no mind, since he's given only moments before the next blow comes – this time to the back of his head, blunt and carrying along a black oblivion – but in those few moments a single thought overtakes him.

' _This is not how you die'_ , a voice says and it's not Thorin's. ' _But I'm already dead',_ Thorin wants to reply. It's a lie that feels like the truth. Or a truth that looks like a lie. Either way, the voice doesn't argue, but it doesn't relent either. ' _This is not how you die_ ', it says, over and over again. Thorin can't place it, but the voice sounds awfully sure of itself, as if it knows something that Thorin doesn't. In the periphery of his vision he barely registers a small figure hurling itself towards the approaching orcs.

The words still resonate in Thorin's mind as the darkness takes him.

 

* * *

“The weeds are wild this year, Mister Bilbo”, says Hamfast Gamgee, squinting up at Bilbo from where he's kneeling on the ground, plucking the offending plants from the dry ground. Bilbo's garden looks as lush and as tended to as when he left it in Hamfast's care via a note on the gate and a key to the front door.

“Well, I can see you've done a proper job of keeping them away from my flowerbeds”, Bilbo replies, offering a small smile to his gardener, who puffs up with pride. They are working side by side, Hamfast weeding the carrot patch, and Bilbo picking snails off the lettuce leaves a patch away. The sun is high in the spotless blue sky, painting the Shire like a bright dream of colour and warmth. Bilbo spent the morning clearing up his study and re-stocking his pantry. It took him a few days to hunt down all his belongings across half of Hobbiton, but slowly Bag End is being restored to its soft, lived-in glory. Once the dust and shade of his rooms became too stifling and too empty at the same time, he made his way out into the garden, looking for the sunshine to chase away some of the cold that seems to have followed him all the way from Erebor.

Now the sharp, rich smell of the soil and the grounding wetness of it on Bilbo's hands makes everything just a bit more real – the familiar movements of tending to his vegetables and the comfortable ache of muscles being put to good use making it easier to sedate his mind into a buzzing muteness.

“So, what are the mountains like, Mister Bilbo?” comes Hamfast's voice, pulling Bilbo out of his thoughts.

“Oh, you know, very rocky and far too rainy for my taste, to be quite honest with you”, Bilbo says, hoping the vague responses will be enough to feed Hamfast's curiosity. It's not that Bilbo minds the benign chatter all that much, not with Hamfast at least. His gardener is one of the rare few of Bilbo's neighbours who hasn't resorted to calling him 'Mad Baggins' yet, and who doesn't seem to mind Bilbo's long silences and half-hearted smiles.

After returning to the Shire in oversized clothes of Men, loaded with Dwarven trinkets, and a _sword_ of all things, shouting bloody murder at everyone gathered in his front yard, Bilbo supposes the nickname could have been much worse. He has no doubt that behind closed doors far less charitable names are being used to speak about him. Because he _is_ being spoken about, that much is certain. Bilbo is half-sure the only exonerating part of him being alive and thwarting the attempts to grab away his silverware and good furniture lies firmly in the fact that he is now the single most fruitful source of gossip Hobbiton's seen in a good long while.

And for all he is, Bilbo can't find it in him to care one bit about any of it. ' _It's so small, what you're doing'_ , he wants to say to them all, because it is. It's small in a way Bilbo can't pin point, the things that were once important and seemed to occupy his daily life now just shrinking, small and petty in comparison with the world out there. ' _Have your gossip and your side-way glances'_ , he thinks to himself, because saying it would actually require him to speak to someone. They can spin their wild tales. None will ever come close to the truth. None will ever guess what he'd seen and what he'd given up. What was taken from him. As if Bilbo could care less for a silly moniker and a few suspiciously absent tea and party invitations. It's almost laughable.

He realises he's drifted away again, and feels a pang of guilt for being such bad company.

“How's the family, Hamfast?” Bilbo asks.

“Oh, loud as ever, the lot of them. Don't know how the missus manages, I'll have you know. Those girls are right wild creatures. But the youngest one is a good lad.”

“Oh, that's right, you've had a son. Samwise, was it?”

“Right you are, Mister Bilbo. Had him the summer after you've gone. Bright little fella, my Sam, from the looks of it. Good to know there'll be someone to take over the gardening business once these old knees betray me”, Hamfast winks.

“You're hardly old, Hamfast”, Bilbo smiles, and this time it's genuine. There's something about Hamfast's simple, unpretending cordiality that never fails to make Bilbo feel better. “I'm glad to hear everyone's doing well. Yvanna knows, the day when the Gamgees quiet down will be the day the Valar walk the land again”, he teases, drawing a hearty laugh from his companion.

“No worries there, no worries”, Hamfast guaffs. “You could come over for supper one day this week, say, make sure we're all alive and kicking still”, he offers tentatively, the hesitation in his voice at odds with his usual rowdiness. “The wife's been badgering me into asking you ever since you got back. And the little ones 'ave been clamouring for stories.”

Bilbo tenses up. Hamfast knows to keep his questions from straying away from the innocuous things – the mountains, the road conditions, and the like – but Bilbo knows this is a tacit understanding, a discretion on his gardener's part that most likely does not extend to the rest of his family, or the rest of Bilbo's acquaintances, for that matter. The idea of story-telling, once a favourite pastime, now makes Bilbo's stomach roil.

“Ah...I'll have to see. Loads still left to do around here, you see. Some repairs, and I still haven't found where my father's second best armchair's been taken to, and...”

“It's alright, Mister Bilbo”, Hamfast interrupts, smiling mildly, and making Bilbo feel all the worst for it. “The offer stands whenever you want to take us up on it. Just meant to say that it was good to have you back.”

“Glad to know someone thinks so”, Bilbo says, aiming for a joke but wincing at the bitterness in his voice.

“Ach, don't mind them. That lot gets their knickers in a twist when a flower forgets to open its petals on time in the morning. They aren't used to all this adventuring you've been doing.”

“Well, it's not catching, so they can stop worrying”, Bilbo grumbles. Hamfast taps his comfortingly on the knee, leaving a muddy handprint on Bilbo's brick-coloured gardening breeches.

“Don't worry, Mister Bilbo. They'll get bored of it soon enough. You just get settled back in at home. I'm sure those tea invitations will start coming again soon enough.”

The words are so honest that Bilbo doesn't have the heart to tell him he'll be rather relieved if they don't, because with them there are also likely come questions far less considerate than Hamfast's, perhaps not meant as such, but still...It is hard for hobbits to understand how someone could prefer solitude to company, but Bilbo doesn't think he has it in him to explain to them that sometimes the loneliest one can feel is in a crowd made out of the wrong faces.

“Thank you, Hamfast”, he says instead, turning back to the snails, who look completely unimpressed by the whole exchange. But then, Bilbo thinks snails don't really have a great range of expressions so he doesn't take their indifference personally as he plucks them off the green leaves.

They work side by side for a while longer, until the sun starts to disappear behind the hill and they lose the light. A wind picks up, pushing the air just on the other side of chilly, and Bilbo feels the sweat on the small of his back cooling under his shirt. He pushes himself to his feet, trying not to wince at the way his knees crack and pop, and sees Hamfast to the fence.

“You can stay for a smoke, if you like”, he offers, mostly out of politeness. “I've just opened a new batch of Old Toby...”

“That's alright, Mister Bilbo”, Hamfast waves him off. “Already late for supper, I am. Wouldn't want to put Bell in a foul mood, now would I?” he smiles, fixing his straw hat.

“No, of course not”, Bilbo smiles back, and hopes the relief doesn't show on his face.

“Well, I wish you a pleasant evening then”, Hamfast bids, tipping his hat.

“Likewise, Hamfast. Thank you for your help.”

Hamfast just smiles and nods before he turns around and starts down the road. Bilbo watches him go until the other hobbit turns around the bend, disappearing from view.

Making his way back into the foyer, Bilbo picks up his waistcoat from where he'd shed it to save it from dirt stains lurking in the garden. The moment he puts in on, his hand falls to his pocket, patting against the Ring. The need to put it on is instant, and the cooling sweat on Bilbo's skin feels like frostbite.

He could. Just for a moment, just for a minute or five, he could slip into a world faded to smeared silhouettes. It is easier to bear, that world. There is comfort there, a coldness that chills to the bone, but is not unwelcome. And it's been a long day, filled with questions that came too close to the dead and pushed-away thoughts that keep pushing back, harder and harder with each passing day.

Bilbo takes out the Ring, holding it between his finger and thumb. The gold glows in the fading light, as bright as the day Bilbo found it, untarnished by time or wear. It really is lovely, Bilbo thinks, golden and perfectly smooth, shiny like a magpie's stolen treasure – a fitting comparison. Well, Bilbo didn't really steal it. He won it, quite cleverly, too. And now it's _his._ Bilbo smiles at the thought, and if anyone were there to see him, they would probably flinch away. Bilbo's smile is barely that, teeth bared in a feral expression of something approaching rapture.

It feels like a fever, running rampant through Bilbo's senses and oh, it's lovely. Lovely and golden and consuming, eating away at the sadness and the grief over...something. Or someone. Bilbo doesn't recall, can't bother to concentrate on it enough to make out the faces in the shadows of memory. Thorin, probably. And the others, too. The young ones. Doesn't matter. He can't have them. Funny, the thought doesn't hurt as it once did. He tries another one. _'They are far away now_ ', he thinks, and surely enough, there is barely a dull thud somewhere behind his breastbone, soothed away by the comforting weight of the Ring. They are far away now. ' _There are better things here'_ a voice supplies, not Bilbo's, but a pleasant voice, and Bilbo wants to believe it.

The Ring continues to glow even though the last light has already vanished, leaving the sky washed-out and darkening. It illuminates Bilbo's face, burns golden reflections into his unblinking eyes. Bilbo feels it would be perfectly alright if he just kept looking at it. But it _is_ awfully shiny. Maybe he should keep in in a safe place, just in case. There's more than magpies around these parts. Yes, keep it close and safe. Away from prying eyes and sticky fingers of greedy hands. Eru knows what could happen otherwise.

It wouldn't do for something so special to fall into the hands of a Sackville-Baggins or a Brandybuck, surely. Bilbo's stomach churns at the thought, some violent urge in him making him close his hand around the golden band, trapping it in the safety of his fist so it is just visible through the space between his fingers. Something so delicate and unusual. A small treasure all of his own, better than dragon's cursed gold, better than silly Dwarven gemstones and Elven jewels. _His._ His and his alone. _His precious_...

A bird darts out from a near-by bush, startled by the hissing that Bilbo only belatedly realises is coming from him – rustling words whispered with sickly ardour. He flinches and tears his eyes away from the Ring, as startled by the bird as it is by him. The freshness of the night comes rushing back around him, smelling of crushed grass and blossoming trees. Bilbo feels sick.

The ring falls from his fingers and bounces down onto the bricks on Bilbo's doorstep, coming to rest by the wall. He walks over to the bench on shaky legs, his bones like gum and his knees betraying him.

Bathed in cold sweat, Bilbo gulps down air. The gentle night feels hostile around him. Inside him. The moon in the now-dark sky is just rising. It reminds Bilbo of big pale eyes in a damp, cold cave not so long ago, and riddles in the dark. He won the riddles and won the dark, it would seem. He can feel the ring where it is. Bilbo keeps his eyes on the pale moon. Pale, pale and lost. Lost to the shine of the departed sun. Of gold. It looks nothing like a moon and everything like a warning.

A chirping sound draws Bilbo's eyes from the sky, his breathing still too fast. The bird is perched on the fence post, and although it probably isn't, in the darkness it looks like a thrush.

Exhaustion floods Bilbo like a tide, and he wants to cry. He tried. Tried so hard not to think about Thorin. About the war of relief and fear he felt when he saw Thorin charging out of Erebor, his Company at his side. It was then that Bilbo knew the dragon sickness had broken. More than anything – more than Thorin shifting hunched and tense through the halls in golden robes and armour, more even than his actions on the ramparts – it was Thorin's decision to stay in Erebor while Dain's army was getting slaughtered that Bilbo saw as the final confirmation that Thorin was not in his right mind.

The Thorin he knew was, among other things, honourable to a fault when it came to defending his own, too hot-blooded for his own good. For Eru's sake, he was stupid enough to charge at the White Orc alone after their little escapade in the goblin tunnels, where he'd stood first in line before the Goblin King, as Bilbo found out later on. That Thorin – _Bilbo's_ Thorin – would have never cowered behind a stone gate.

So, when Thorin burst out into the battlefield, sword gleaming, a battle cry on his lips, Bilbo knew. He knew he hadn't lost the Thorin he followed all the way to Erebor, and the relief was almost overwhelming. But with it came the realisation that he might just lose him to an orc's mace or blade, just when he'd gotten him back again. Bilbo couldn't do much about it, and the helplessness of it all was worse than the fear itself. Which was why, the moment Gandalf mentioned Azog's trap on Ravenhill, Bilbo knew where he was to go. Where he was meant to be. It was where he was always meant to be. By Thorin's side, making sure the silly dwarf didn't get himself killed.

Sitting on the bench, Bilbo looks at the not-thrush, that still hasn't flown away, for some reason or another. He waits for tears, but they never come. He waits for the gaping emptiness inside him to swallow him, but that never happens either. Oblivion seems like a mercy now, but it's a mercy Bilbo hasn't earned apparently.

Looking back now, Bilbo thinks that maybe the minutes he spent climbing up Ravenhill were his last hopeful moments. He didn't know it then. All he could think about when he was climbing the icy, snow-covered rocks was that just maybe he could save them. He'd never run faster in all his life. It didn't matter in the end. He could have flown, and it still wouldn't have changed a thing.

Bilbo's heart refuses to forget the way it beat when he saw Thorin alive, when Thorin turned around and said Bilbo's name like it was salvation itself. There has never been a drum that beat louder than Bilbo's heart did then. In that moment, he'd honestly believed they would make it.

He made it to Ravenhill in time, and still he ended up being too late. Bilbo will never forget Thorin's face as Fili shouted to them to run. Thorin's eyes had been so wide. So blue. So young and old, at the same time. If Bilbo had wanted to punish Thorin, he doubts he could have thought of a more cruel punishment. Not that he did. Perhaps he should have. No one could blame him for it if he did.

And yet, Bilbo didn't care for any of it then, nor does he now. He doesn't want revenge. Even back then, when everything had still been fresh and harsh, he didn't want it. He wanted a new start. He wanted to see everyone make it out alive, and then they could have taken it from there. It would have been difficult, he knows. There would have been guilt and hurt to work through (preferably) or around (well, he never said they were perfect). There would have been broken trust to be mended and tentative second-first steps to be taken. But they would have learned, and eventually there would have been smiles, and comfortable silences, and those soft conversations shared in the middle of the night, two insomniacs seeking company and dreaming awake of each other's pasts. Maybe, eventually, Thorin would have sung again, and Bilbo would have loved him for it.

Maybe Bilbo would have stayed in Erebor. He doesn't know. In his head, all this takes place in some undefined space – a nondescript corridor or room, a forest pathway. It doesn't matter. In time, Bilbo thinks, they would have found a way and a place. Bilbo wonders if he would have gotten the chance to learn if Thorin slept in a bed the way he did during their journey – always on his left side, curled up as if he were protecting the soft parts of himself. If Thorin would have wanted for Bilbo to braid his hair. Bilbo wonders if he would have let Thorin keep his eyes closed after the first time Bilbo kissed him.

They would have made mistakes, Bilbo knows, but they would have been fine. Eventually, they would have been just fine. All they needed way a bit more time.

Somewhere in the darkness, a fox rustles in the tall grass, disturbing the silence. The bird lifts off the fence post and flies away, and it's not a thrush. Of course it's not. Most of the time, things are not meaningful like that.

There is something in Bilbo's throat, chocking him. A corpse of a laughter that could have been, perhaps. Words unsaid left to rot. Good words. The good hurts worse. The good hurts like a lost possibility. Bilbo's eyes are dry and his hands are cold. He is always cold these days. The image of Thorin's face is burnt into his mind's eye, alive, impossible, and haunting.

It takes Bilbo three steps to reach the porch and another two to reach the spot where the Ring lies abandoned.

In his head, Thorin is laughing at some long-forgotten joke. It's a fantasy more probably than a memory. Bilbo doesn't remember telling that many jokes.

Bilbo picks up the Ring.

The Thorin in Bilbo's mind smiles and it's unbearably fond. It burns.

Bilbo slips the Ring onto his finger.

 

* * *

“That was a reckless thing to do” is the first thing Thorin hears when he wakes. His body aches and buzzes, and there's a strange, sour after-taste in the back of his throat which he'd felt before, but can't quite recall when or where. Thorin doesn't get the time to try and remember why it feels familiar, though, as a wet dish rag hits him in the face. The wet sound it makes as it collides with his filth-ridden skin is really one of the most unceremonious ones Thorin's ever heard. But no one hardly ever throws wet dish rags at kings or once-kings, so...

Well. Obviously not no one.

“You better get yourself cleaned up, those are my better sheets, I'll have you know”, says the voice again, and in the dim light Thorin's eyes adjust enough to the low light for him to make out a figure of an old woman bustling around in one corner of what appears to be a bedroom.

His memories come back to him in fragments, still muddled by the pounding in his head, but Thorin recalls seeing a cottage by the road, a lonely house in the middle of nowhere, and wondering if he could rent a bed for the night. In fact, he was just about to walk over and knock when the orcs came. Ah, yes. Orcs. That would explain all the aching, Thorin thinks as he shifts and winces.

It does not, however, explain why they're both still alive. Thorin distinctly remembers some very-much-alive orc mugs staring at him when the world went black. He can't, for all Mahal's braids, understand why he's still in one piece. Unless...

Thorin's gaze returns to the old woman as he studies her more carefully. She's short for one of her race, probably not even taller than Thorin, and plump. Her steel-grey hair is cropped close to her scalp and gives off a strange, bluish glow in the light. The most remarkable feature are definitely her eyes, set deep in her face, pale and bright. All in all, she looks pretty much as threatening as a hen, maybe. But Thorin knows better than to judge based on looks. Besides, he's faced down some pretty angry hens in his day.

“How did you rid us of them?” he asks, because either his host was the one to drive the orcs away, or the orcs suffered an unexpected surge of mercy and decided to let them go, and Thorin knows which option is more probable. Or even remotely possible, really.

“With a shovel.”

“A shovel?” Thorin croaks incredulously, but schools his voice when the woman shoots him a stern look. “Very, um, effective.”

“You better believe it”, she lectures. “You, on the other hand, Master Dwarf, were anything but. By Eru, it's been a long time since I've seen someone go at a band of orcs like that”, she says and it doesn't sound like a compliment at all. More like a scolding. Thorin bristles at first at being called “Master Dwarf”, before he realises there was no derision in the woman's voice, no mocking sneer in her tone. Only then does it hit him that he hasn't given his name.

“Well, it's been a long time since a band of orcs crossed my path”, he replies.

Thorin doubts that an old woman living in the middle of nowhere is a risk – truly, it's highly probable she doesn't even know who he is – but still the idea of giving his name sits uneasily with Thorin. Dead dwarves should not be roaming the wild, and the wind picks up and carries words and news faster than one would expect. He mulls over the idea of giving a false name, but that too leaves a bad taste in Thorin's mouth. This woman has taken him in and offered nothing but hospitality and care. It would not do for Thorin to repay her with lies and deceits.

His head is still too heavy for too many thoughts, so he decides not to poke that particular wasp nest just yet, settling for the soft ambiguity of 'Master Dwarf' for as long as he'll be able to.

“I can see that”, the woman answers. “You got quite a beating to prove it, too. I did the best I could”, she says. “Your leg got the worse of it, I fear. It will scar, but you'll live. And whatever brains you've got might still be a bit scrambled from the knock you took. You should eat, but if you're feeling sick maybe we better wait.”

“Maybe we better do.” The idea of food makes Thorin's stomach threaten rebellion. He watches the woman putter around the room as she speaks.

“Your things are in the back yard. Got soaked in orc blood, they stink to high heavens.”

“They didn't take anything?” Thorin asks, frowning. He assumed the raid was a fluke, a renegade ambush made for sport and some thieving. The only other possibility was that the orcs targeted him specially. But that was impossible. He was dead, as far as the world was concerned.

“No need to sound so disappointed about it”, the woman answers, and the wry humour in her voice combined with the intelligent look in her eyes makes Thorin cautiously like her. “I'm sure they would have stolen their fill if you hadn't chopped a few of them to pieces. And by the time I was done with them, they were lucky to keep their ugly heads, let alone anything of yours.”

“Thank you”, Thorin says, bowing his head. “It seems I am in your debt, mistress...?.”

“Sprita”, the woman answers, pronouncing her name so it sounds like a sharp rock or an eagle's shriek. “And nonsense”, she waves her hand. “You've done the hard part. I was just cleaning up what was left. Speaking of cleaning up”, she nods her head towards the wet cloth still clutched in Thorin's hands. “As I said, you should do just that. Best not take your chances with infections.”

“Of course”, Thorin obeys. Something about his hostess – Sprita – reminds him of his grandmother. There is a sharpness to her demeanour, combined with some sort of tough affection, and Thorin feels the need to check his hands to make sure his nails are clean, and comb down his hair. His grandmother always cared about tidiness.

“I will come back later, I've still got some work in the garden. Rest up, Master Dwarf. There's food in the kitchen, but I will bring it to you a bit later on. You shouldn't get up just yet. Give that leg a chance to heal.”

In the end, the whole ordeal of his name turns out to be a non-issue. Sprita never asks, and Thorin never offers. He nods his thanks and Sprita leaves, leaving him feeling oddly drained. Thorin realises he's spoken more in the past half an hour than in the last three months. His throat feels scraped and raw, and head buzzes slightly. He doesn't remember keeping up a conversation being this tiring. But then again, Sprita seems to be an unconventional conversation partner to say the least. Thorin has a creeping hunch that he would have been left dizzy from this exchange even if he were not suffering from a bit of scrambled brains.

He moves the cloth carefully over his wounded thigh, and the proceeds to clean the rest of his skin, scrubbing off grime and blood. It is strange but he feels at peace. A bit confused, yes, but there is no fear nor anger, no constant wondering of what next. He survived. He could have died, just as easily. Thorin finds no elation in the knowledge of this, no euphoria of having made it out still breathing and relatively unscathed. It doesn't change much, really, and Thorin realises it is perhaps because nothing hinges on his survival this time. The Sea wouldn't have wept had Thorin never made it to its shores, and there is no quest to be see through to the end, no other lives to be responsible for. There is some relief in aimlessness, it would seem.

By the time he finishes washing himself, Thorin feels impossibly tired. His eyes close before he even knows what he's doing, and within minutes he is asleep again.

 

 

* * *

“What are you making?” Thorin asks.

He's slept through the night and woken yesterday to find breakfast of fresh baked bread and warm, fatty milk by his bedside. Famished, he wolfed it all down more quickly than was polite, the milk coating his tongue in a way that reminded him of his childhood and the simple days spent running around with Dis and Frerin, until they were too hungry to go on so they snuck into the pantries instead.

“A spoon. Or a gardening tool. Depends”, Sprita answers. She's whittling a small piece of soft wood – pine maybe – using a small carving knife. Thorin recalls Bifur and Bofur doing the same during their journey, and is struck by a sudden ache of missing his friends. They are so far away now, no better than a distant memory.

“On what?”

“On how you look at it.”

“Subtle”, Thorin murmurs to himself. Ever since he arrived two days ago, Sprita has been dropping such lines that Thorin knew he was supposed to hear as more than what they were. It's impossible that she knows of his inner turmoil, but the parallels her words draw with his situation are not lost on Thorin. He hasn't told the woman much about his journey, but she definitely seems to know more than she's letting on. Thorin isn't sure if he should be relieved or concerned about that.

“The roads around these parts are growing more dangerous with each passing day”, she informed Thorin last morning while checking his leg wound. “I hope whatever business you've got here is concluded quickly.”

“What makes you think I'm here on business?”

Sprita shot him a sly look. “There are no mountains around here where dwarves dwell. Why else would you be travelling this way...”

It didn't really sound like a question, so Thorin decided not to answer. By that first afternoon, his leg stopped aching enough for him to walk a few faces, and by the next morning, he was able to cover small distances, thanks to whatever herbal goo Sprita was using on him.

Which is how they got where they are now, seated in Sprita's back garden, in the shade cast by the cottage. Thorin is sanding down the window frames. The wood of them has swollen up with damp and the blue paint is chipped. The house fixes are a deal he's struck with his hostess after waking up.

“I have some gold to repay you for your kindness and make up for any costs I may have brought upon you”, he offered over lunch the day before.

“That won't be necessary”, Sprita answered around a mouthful of salty oatmeal porridge with beef.

“I do not want charity”, Thorin warned.

“And I am not offering to give it”, Sprita replied calmly. “I simply don't have much use for gold out here. I am much more in need of more practical services you might be able to offer. My gate needs fixing, and the windows don't sit well in their frames anymore. If you wish to repay me, you can do it by helping me fix those, once your leg is healed.”

Thorin had no choice but to agree of course.

“You never asked for my name”, he continued.

“You never seemed willing to give it”, his hostess replied. “And I don't mind it. We've made it this far without it, so as far as I am concerned, you needn't give it to me at all. I do not wish for something you cannot give with an easy heart. It doesn't matter if you're a king or a beggar to me.”

Thorin tried not to flinch at the accuracy of that last sentence. Surely, it was just an expression, a coincidence.

“You gave me yours”, he said, slight burn of shame clawing at his throat.

“I owe you my life. Those orcs were half-finished by the time I got to them. Alone against all six of them, I doubt even my shovel would have been of much use. My name was the least I could give.”

“I could say the same.”

“You could. Or you could tell me if this porridge needs more salt. I can't quite tell”, Sprita said, effectively concluding the conversation.

Thorin caught her looking at him with something akin to worry over the course of the day, but she never asked more about what he was doing on the road. In fact, she left him to his own devices for the better part of the day, to rest or read some of the books he found in her house.

Now, as they work side-by-side in the lazy heat of the day, Thorin is too focused on his work to worry, and that's quite a new sensation. It's alike to the focus he felt in the forges, practising his craft. Busy hands mean a calm mind, his grandmother used to say, and there must be some truth to it, seeing as Thorin feels lighter somehow the more he works. With each new blister on his palms, he feels more and more like a freshly aired room, the cobwebs and staleness being burned away by the sun.

“What's it called?” Sprita breaks into Thorin's thoughts, nodding at Thorin's sword, which rests against the cottage wall.

“It has no name”, Thorin replies. “Haven't had the chance to earn it one.”

“A nameless sword. Hm. Bad luck, that.”

“I don't believe in luck”, Thorin says, the words being his go-to response for a good while now.

“Well maybe you should”, Sprita counters. “And even if you don't – it's tradition.”

“Well, it shall remain nameless until I find a suitable name for it. If I do.”

“Nameless. I like that.”

Thorin frowns, lifting his head to look at Sprita.

“You just said it was bad luck.”

“Of course it is. What I meant is, _Nameless_ is a good name.”

“You can't be serious.”

“Oh, but I am.”

Thorin stares at the old woman, befuddled, but after a while, he starts to see her point. Unbidden, a thought runs wild in his mind: ' _even Bilbo's glorified letter opener has a name'._ He doesn't know why he thinks that, or why his mind has decided every thought should, by default, be in some way linked to Bilbo, but there it is. Thorin wants to forget and he wants never to stop thinking about it. It feels like both a punishment and an undeserved reward, somehow.

He flinches back into motion when he realises he's been staring wordlessly for some time now, but Sprita doesn't seem to mind. She smiles that too-knowing smile of hers and goes back to shaping the wood, leaving Thorin to his thoughts.

 _Nameless_.

Unusual, that's for sure, Thorin thinks. But undeniably appropriate. After all, people always fear the things they can't name, those things that lurk on the edges of their vision, strange and unknown, frightening in their foreignness. Maybe the name will bring him luck, or at least keep him safe, seeing as Thorin still doesn't really believe in luck. Honestly, there was never much that would teach him to believe so, apart from maybe, that luck was a thing that happened to others.

He casts another look in Sprita's direction, but when the woman offers no more conversation, Thorin turns back to his own work, letting the repetition and rhythm of his movements lull him into a state of odd and muted peace.

 

 

* * *

Now that he's back in Bag End, Bilbo finds himself noticing things about his home that he never paid much attention to before. The quiet is definitely one of them. He'd never noticed before – it was the default, a silence untainted with expectation. A whole silence with nothing missing. But now, there are holes in it. It's a doily-silence now. Bilbo catches himself tense and waiting for voices he knows will not come.

The space is another thing Bilbo can't seem to settle back into. After Erebor and its vast chambers and corridors, Bag End should feel downright claustrophobic, but it doesn't. Instead, the air is too thin, diluted, most of the time. Only at dusk does it seem thick with memories and shadows of some other times. The kitchen's too empty and the lounge is too big for just him. There's always so much food in the pantry that he worries it will go stale.

All in all, Bilbo is supposed to be home, only home no longer fits. It's like a pair of comfortable trousers that he's grown out of or grown too thin to wear, and now they flap around his waist and knees, ill-fitted and washed-out.

He finds himself fleeing outside more and more, looking for comfort in the open air. His garden keeps him busy, giving him the perfect excuse, but even that well of denial runs dry after a while. If Bilbo continues to do absolutely everything there is to be done in the garden, he'll put Hamfast out of work.

There is, however, still one job to be done that requires his green thumb. One he has no intention of leaving to Hamfast.

He wakes up before sunrise (as he usually does these days, if he happens to sleep at all) and dresses in his gardening clothes – with one small addition. There is absolutely no sound reason why a hobbit should wear a mail shirt while doing something as harmless as planting, but there is no one in the early morning's hush who could question why silver shine of mithril that peeks out of the low cut of Bilbo's shirt collar. In a way, he is dressed in a finery. It's what one wears for special occasions isn't it?

Bilbo sits on the grass, watching the silver sky blush with the approaching dawn, and he wonders if it's a blasphemy of some sorts, what he's doing. After all, he's not a dwarf, and all this is just a twisted mockery of a borrowed tradition. But once again, there is no one to chastise him, so Bilbo waits until the first burning line of the sun breaches the horizon and then gets to work.

The ground gives easily under Bilbo's insistent digging, and soon he's got a hole deep enough for planting. Whatever Gandalf did to the acorn stopped it from drying out or catching mould. It is still as firm and perfectly smooth in Bilbo's palm as it was the day he picked it up in Beorn's garden. There's still a chance it won't yield anything, in the end. He slips it into the ground and covers it with dirt. Maybe it will rot in the ground, but Bilbo will take that chance.

Later on, he falls asleep in the middle of the afternoon, and wakes up only when the sun is already setting. The end of the day is just as spectacular as the start of it, the burning oranges as impressive in their own right as the silverish pastels. But all the beauty can't distract Bilbo from the fact that he's slept most of the day away. And maybe beginnings and endings are spectacular, but Bilbo knows the best part of anything is always the middle. Still, he only seems to be getting false starts and far too many endings.

 

 

* * *

It is a week and a half after Thorin's arrival that the too-easy stasis is finally broken. It happens at supper, over plates of cooked potatoes and roasted venison. They're seated at the kitchen table, quietly sharing a meal, when Sprita breaks the silence.

“Whatever it is you're running away from is surely not as frightening as orcs”, she says, apropos of nothing, and the food in Thorin's mouth suddenly tastes like dust.

“What makes you think I'm running away from something?”, he replies without lifting his eyes from the food. “I could simply be a traveller.”

Sprita snorts so loudly that Thorin worries she might hurt herself.

“Because I've seen you fight”, she says, pining him with a sharp look. “Some would call it fierce. But you fight like all that matters is the next stab of your sword, and not coming out of the fight alive. Only two sorts fight like that – the dying and those with nothing left to lose. I do not know what it is you've lost, but trust an old woman when she tells you that whatever it is, it is not lost forever. Nothing ever is.”

Thorin doesn't appreciate the meddling, but Sprita is looking at him with raised eyebrows, and there is only so long he can remain silent under the pretence of chewing a single bite of food before it becomes ridiculous.

“Even if it weren't, I would not go looking for it.”

“Not even at the price of your life?”

The question gives Thorin a pause and he looks up, frowning. Sprita's voice is oddly sad.

“I do not understand.”

He doesn't like his companion's expression. It's familiar in a way Thorin can't place at first – too knowing, sharp eyes giving away a sharp mind behind the benign wrinkles and grey hair. It's not until Sprita pushes away her plate and goes about filling her pipe that it hits Thorin of whom she reminds him: Gandalf. Really, the similarity is almost familial, if not physically then certainly in the manner his hostess goes about her business. Meddling and secrets. For a moment, Thorin is almost tempted to ask if there's a blood connection there.

“Would you seek what you have lost if it meant saving your life?” Sprita repeats, slowly, as if Thorin were still a bit off in the head.

“I didn't know my life was in need of saving.”

“There are more threats to life than death”, Sprita says. It sounds like a bad line from an elvish poem, if you ask Thorin.

“That makes no sense at all”, Thorin grumbles. The woman really is too similar to Gandalf, with her cryptic words and unsettling eyes.

“And that's not an answer to my question”, Sprita shoots back, unfazed. Thorin sighs.

“I stand by what I said. I would not go looking for it. And if the price were my life, then it would be a fair one.”

“That's rather a high cost.”

“It was a rather high offence”, Thorin bites out, knowing that he'd given himself away. Doesn't matter. He has a feeling Sprita knew right from the start, and whatever he reveals comes as no surprise to her.

“Hm,” is all that Sprita says before turning back to her meal. A few minutes pass in blessed silence before she speaks again, and Thorin fights the urge to roll his eyes. Honestly, he is a fool for thinking he could shake her off that easily.

“Tell me, Master Dwarf, what would you say the price of forgiveness is?” Sprita says so casually that they might just be discussing the weather. Thorin sighs.

“I wouldn't dare venture a guess. Depends on the deed.”

“That it does.” The sharp glint in Sprita's eyes warns Thorin that whatever pretence they're so half-heartedly keeping up is paper-thin. As if they both don't know precisely what they are talking about. Sprita, for one, seems tired of playing games.

“Perhaps it's best then to simply ask, lest you find yourself overpaying in currencies deemed worthless. You may just discover that there was never a price at all. And even if there were it is not for you to set it. Not all of it, anyway. Many things are thought unforgivable, until someone forgives them.”

Enough of this, then. Thorin's fork clatters against the plate as he draws himself upright. He is grateful to his hostess for all she's done, he really is, but he cannot stand this prodding of hers. She's poking at bruises and cuts Thorin's spent too long trying to ignore. She has no idea what she's talking about.

“Maybe there are things which should not be forgiven”, Thorin says. “For which forgiveness should not be asked.”

Sprita inclines her head, looking completely comfortable despite Thorin's sour mood.

“True. So, don't ask for forgiveness, then” she says, as if it's obvious. “Give remorse freely, without expecting anything in return. Do your best to prevent any further grievances. The past cannot be undone, but you can use the future to start repaying any debt you might have.”

“It is not that simple”, Thorin replies impatiently.

“I'm sure it isn't. But there is an old saying around these parts”, Sprita says. “I believe it goes something like this: ' _All that is gold does not glitter, and not all who wander are lost'.”_

Pretty words, Thorin thinks. And just as useless.

“What's that supposed to mean?”, he asks.

“That mean, Master Dwarf, that just maybe things happen for a reason. And even the not-simple things.”

“You don't understand. There is nothing you can say that will sway me. My decision stands. That which I have lost, I have lost because of my own folly and weakness. I shall not go looking for it. Not even at the price of my life.”

Sprita remains silent for a moment or two after that, searching for something in Thorin's face. She looks untypically hesitant, and well, even 'nothing' has to have a catch, doesn't it? When she speaks, Sprita's voice is firm.

“What if it were at the price of life of a better one?”

 

 

* * *

“Orcs!”

Half a dozen chairs screech against the stone floor as their occupants jump to their feet at the shout. Dwalin's weapons are at the ready the moment he rises from his chair, and Dain and Dis reach for their swords as well.

“Where?” Dis demands over Dwalin's “How far out?” and Dain's “Is the gate secured?”, facing the newcomer. She's never seen Nori lose composure like this, but the said dwarf has just burst into the room as if Durin the Deathless himself just descended into his sleeping chamber. He now stands in the middle of the assembly chamber, trying to catch his breath and wheezing out words between heaving gulps of air.

“No, no, not here”, Nori waves his hand and the room seems to breathe out collectively, with Dwalin putting his battle axes away and Dis and Dain falling out of their battle stances. Balin, Ori, Bombur sit back down, half-collapsing into the chairs. They'd just been discussing the food rationing for the soldiers, with Dwalin there as a War Advisor and temporary Head of the Guard until the caravans return, Balin as the Chief Advisor to the Crown, Ori as the record keeper and Bombur as the one in charge of the kitchens.

“Roäc just got back,” Nori says, once again drawing all eyes to himself. “Thorin was ambushed on the road through Rhovanion. He's alive”, he adds hastily before all hell can break loose again. “But he's been injured. The animals told Roäc he'd been taken in by the old woman he was protecting when the Orcs struck.”

“How badly injured?” Dwalin asks.

“A cut to his thigh was the worst of it apparently. Shallow, but still bad. He got knocked over the head, too. Took him out, that one. But he'll keep.”

“It's a hard head”, Dain murmurs fondly. Dwalin snorts. “That it is.”

Nori sweeps his gaze over the room, taking in everyone's half-relieved, half-concerned expressions, but when he speaks again he looks straight at his Queen.

“There's one more thing. The animals say the Orcs were headed to Mordor and spoke of some new hunt they were to be sent on soon.” Out of the corner of his eye, Nori can see the other dwarves in the room turn to each other. A low murmur spreads through the room as they discuss this new development, but Dis' pays them no attention.

“Did they say where?” she asks, eyes trained on Nori as grey as falcon's feathers. Nori's throat feels too tight for two completely contrary reasons. Can't anything ever be simple? Oh well, he thinks, it would be no fun that way, would it now? He nods.

“They did”, he says, and he hates the answer. It's just wrong.

“So? Where are they headed?” Dwalin asks, impatiently. Nori doesn't look away from Dis as he answers.

“The Shire.”

Dwalin frowns. “The Shire? What does a swarm of Orcs want in the _Shire_?”

Nori spares him a fleeting look before his eyes return to the Queen.

“I'm not entirely sure”, he begins and it's a lie, blatant and useless. “But I am made to believe there was a mention of a ring.”

All noise dies down so quickly and thoroughly that for a second Nori worries he's gone deaf. Ori and Bombur look horrified, mouths gaping open as they exchange stunned looks. Balin just sighs and drops his head into the palms of his hands. Everyone in the room looks appalled. Everyone except Dis.

“Is Thorin aware of this?” Dis' voice is carefully neutral, and that is all the confirmation Nori needs to know that the intricacies of the situation are not lost on the Queen.

“As far as the animals manages to work out, he is. Apparently he's already changed his course and will be heading towards the Shire as soon as he is well enough to be on the road.”

“Oh, Mahal's hammer...” comes from the table. Surprisingly, it's Ori who speaks, his eyes wide with understanding. Nori hates that look on his little brother's face. It's by far too devastated an expression. “He thinks they are after Bilbo, doesn't he?”

Nori nods once again, a short, terse motion.

“This could be the chance we were waiting for”, he tells Dis, who looks deep in thought. “Our only chance.”

“I'm afraid you may be right”, she sighs, rubbing a hand across her brow. “How long do you think it will take him to reach Hobbiton?”

Nori shrugs, but Ori beats him to the answer.

“Depending on the path he takes and if he's by foot or on a pony, anywhere between six months and a year.”

“He'll be making haste, so we should assume he will take the shortest possible path. Have the message waiting for him in the Shire.”

“Do you think he will heed it?” Nori asks, at the same time as Ori says: “What message?”

Dis takes in the faces all turned to her.

“My brother apparently does not value his life enough to return to the safety of Erebor”, she explains. “But I do believe he will value Bilbo Baggins' a bit more. If there is anything that can make Thorin return to us, it is a threat to Bilbo's safety.

I intend to address everyone as soon as the last of the caravan arrives. There is trouble stirring in the east, and it seems to be spreading. I've spoken to Gandalf, and the Wizard, too, thinks trouble may come knocking at our gate, and the gates of many other much sooner than expected.

We cannot yet reveal Thorin is alive, but we can issue a statement that a friend of Erebor might need to seek shelter here. I'm afraid we might find ourselves facing another battle much too soon and we must be ready for it. So, that's what I'll ask of our people tomorrow. Do you think they will rally to the memory of their King?”

Dwalin shakes his head.

“No, Your Majesty,” he says. “They will rally to their Queen.”

 

 

* * *

“You knew who I was all along, didn't you?” Thorin asks, but it's rhetoric at best. Oh, things make much more sense now. A life of a better one. Bilbo. She'd known all along. But how?

“You were a fool to think that those who care for you abandoned you just because you left”, Sprita says, not unkindly. “The only difference is that they know your life is your own. So they let you go. They just wanted to know if you were alive. I was asked to keep an eye out, should you pass by.”

“Who are you?” Thorin asks, more harshly than he intends. Sprita doesn't seem unnerved by it.

Her eyes are soft as he tilts her head and looks at Thorin.

“I'd like to think I'm a friend.”

“You are”, Thorin replies, because the last few days have proven it to be true. “But that's not what I meant.”

“I know it isn't”, Sprita says, and leaves it at that.

“How long have you known that the Orcs were headed for the Shire?” Thorin demands, trying his best to keep the panic bubbling in his chest from seeping into his voice. He's lost so much time already.

“I overheard them mentioning it during the ambush”, Sprita replies. She is standing by as Thorin hurriedly packs his things, ready to leave as soon as the last buckle is fastened. The Shire is half a year's journey away, at best, and he cannot afford to lose another day.

“And you didn't think to tell me sooner?”

Sprita raises an eyebrow. “You could barely walk”, she replies coolly, clearly unimpressed by Thorin's brazenness. “Had I told you, maybe you would have tried to leave right away, injured yourself worse, and done no good to anyone.”

She's right, Thorin know she is. That only makes him angrier.

“You shouldn't have kept it from me”, he grinds out, stuffing a spare blanket into his pack.

“I didn't know you cared so much about the life of my friend, whom, if I may point out, you've never met. I found it to be in your best interest to keep you in the dark. Save you the pain of making the wrong decision.”

“It was not your call to make!” Thorin shouts, only realising he's walked right into Sprita's trap when she smiles at him, showing far too many teeth. It is then that Thorin knows for certain this is no ordinary old woman.

“Oh, really? A bit hypocritical, that, coming from you, don't you think?” Sprita pins him down with a look. Her voice is calm, a perfect contrast to Thorin's. “Tell me, Master Oakenshield, did you extend the same courtesy of choice to those you've kept in the dark about your survival? To your people? To Bilbo Baggins?”

To that, Thorin has no reply. He shoves a shirt into his pack with more force than is necessary.

“You've got a good heart, Thorin”, Sprita smiles gently. “But sometimes you need to be saved from it. And I am someone who just happened to be in the right place at the right time. That's all. Now, I believe you're in a hurry. Finish your packing here, and I'll go see what food I can spare from my pantry.”

She leaves Thorin, who is still reeling. On one hand, he needs to get on his way as soon as possible, a constant litany of _Bilbo, Bilbo, Bilbo_ and _danger_ spinning around in his mind. On the other, he wants to stay until he can work out precisely what is happening here. He does not appreciate being a pawn in someone's game, nor does he like being kept in the dark.

But between his pride and the mere thought of delaying any further and risking Bilbo's safety by doing so, for once Thorin's pride loses the battle. He finishes packing his clothes that Sprita washed and left out to dry, and then goes about fastening his sword to his belt.

Sprita comes back carrying a pouch full of dried fruits, nuts, a loaf of bread, and some smoked meat. She also hands Thorin a full water skin, which he straps onto his rucksack.

“This should last you till the first village. I've put some salve for your leg in there too”, Sprita says. “Keep it clean, and give it a rest when it starts to ache. I would tell you not to overdo the riding, but I know you won't listen to me anyway.”

“You are very wise”, Thorin deadpans.

“And you're a brat, Thorin Oakenshield”, Sprita smacks his elbow.

At last, Thorin shrugs on his cloak. Sprita walks him to the door, and as anxious as Thorin is to leave, he finds it hard to part from the comfort and the warmth of the cottage and its inhabitant.

“Was there more to that saying of yours?” Thorin asks.

“There was. Would you like to hear it?”

Thorin nods and Sprita recites the words with a soft lilt to her voice, smooth like a pebble made round and perfect by the river's incessant currents.

“All that is gold does not glitter,  
Not all those who wander are lost;  
The old that is strong does not wither,  
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

    From the ashes a fire shall be woken,  
A light from the shadows shall spring;  
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,  
The crownless again shall be king.”
    

Thorin does not ask if it's a prophecy. It's befitting, that's certain. It's also completely irrelevant. At the moment, Thorin couldn't care less for crowns and he is no longer wandering. He know precisely where he's going. Maybe it's where he was going all along.

“Can I ask one more thing?”, he asks.

“Whatever you like.”

“Did you really fight off orcs with a shovel?”

Sprita's laughter rings out like silver bells, lighter and more youthful that Thorin would have ever guess it to be.

“Indeed, I did”, she grins, a wicked sparkle lighting her eyes. “You shouldn't be so surprised, you know. An old friend of mine once defeated three mountain trolls using only a walking staff.”

“I once said I would never have dealings with wizards again”, Thorin says. He's had his suspicions ever since he woke up to the tang of magic healing on his tongue. He has an inkling that his wounds were much worse than he was lead to believe. They certainly healed more quickly than was normally possible.

“Good thing I'm not a wizard, then.”

“Aren't you?”

“Of course not.”

“I'm not sure I believe that”, Thorin says.

“And I am sure you have greater worries than believing me, at the moment”, Sprita reminds him. Apparently, Thorin is not meant to have the last word in this conversation. Oddly enough, he can live with that.

“At your service, Mistress Sprita”, he says, bowing shortly.

“And I at yours, Master Oakenshield. I wish you safe travels.”

Thorin nods his thanks and turns away. The sun is setting, but he plans to make it to the nearest settlement by midday tomorrow. From there, he will take a pony across the Brown Lands and towards Helm's Deep. He tries to focus on the logistics of the journey, planing the route and calculating expenses, but even that can't quite mask the undercurrent that makes Thorin's heart pound as loudly as his feet.

Bilbo. He is going to see Bilbo. Buried under the worry and the fear, there is something far too vicious to be simple joy, a wild expanse of feeling crowding under his lungs. He doesn't deserve it, Thorin knows, but his heart is a weak one and it latches onto the feeling, greedy and delighted. The West calls and Thorin doesn't look back.

If he did, he would see Sprita watching him from where she stands at the gate. She keeps up her vigil until Thorin's diminishing figure finally disappears in the distance.

“Believe, Master Oakenshield. I am no wizard”, she murmurs to herself. “. _I_ am a sorceress.”

Just then, a butterfly flutters down onto her shoulder while a large, shiny raven dives down from the sky and lands at the old woman's feet.

“Tell Gandalf he's on his way”, Sprita tells the butterfly before she turns to the raven. “And tell your queen she might be getting news of her brother's return before the year is out.”

The eastern sky grows dark like an ink-stained page. In the middle of the road to the Inland Sea, no one sees the flash of blue light that follows the departure of animal messengers.

 

 

* * *

“We should wait until we have word from Thorin”, Dis says. “No use in riling up everyone when we're not even certain yet that Bilbo will agree to come. I intend to send a letter to the Shire for him, but I do not want to act rashly.”

“My contact tells me Thorin is making good time”, Gandal replies. “No trouble on the road, I am lead to believe. You will have your confirmation soon enough.”

Dis' private drawing room is bathed in firelight and rich with the smell of tobacco smoke.

“Your contact, Gandalf – the old woman – who is she, precisely?”

“Sprita is...an old friend.”

“That was anything but precise”, Dis warns. Gandalf glances at the Queen of Erebor, testing his chances for getting away with his usual vagueness. He finds Dis much less pliable to his charms than even Thorin. He relents in the end, estimating that his evasion tactics will probably prove futile.

“Tirnel the Blue. She is one of the Blue Istari.”

“That explains a thing or two”, Dis sighs. Truth be told, she's too tired to chastise Gandalf about keeping secrets. It would do precisely zero good, anyway.

The Wizard, on his part, has the decency to look slightly abashed. That doesn't stop him from pushing on, of course.

“Before you send that letter, I'd like to make an addition of my own”, he says.

Dis frowns, but doesn't pry. “Certainly. I was planning on sending it tomorrow, but if you need time I can wait. The ravens -”

The door slams open, so Gandalf never finds out what about the ravens. A breathless guard half-stumbles and half-falls through the doorway.

“M'lady, we caught an intruder in the lower tunnels.”

“An intruder?”, Dis says, rising to her feet.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“How is that possible? The lower tunnels are open for any dwarf in Erebor who wishes to go there.”

“It was not a Dwarf, m'lady.”

“Who then?”

The guard looks so very uncomfortable, Gandalf almost feels sorry for the poor lass.

“An Elf.”

Ah. Yes. Because things weren't nearly complicated enough for one afternoon. Dis can already feel the starts of a colossal headache as she follows the guard out of the room and down to the holding cells.

Thorin's left her a fine mess of things, that's for sure. And it's about to get messier.

 

 

* * *

Spring melts seamlessly into summer, and everything in the Shire seems long-recovered from the winter's harsh nips. Gardens thrive and younglings grow and learn – to walk, to speak, to give their parents headaches. Life is loud and abundant, vivid they way it can only be in the Shire. Days are full of colours and the nights are full of song and warm-glowing lanterns strung between tree branches. Everything in the Shire is warm and moving with the season.

So why isn't Bilbo?

Where the plants around him flourish, Bilbo withers. Where the ground grows warmer, Bilbo cools like a cup of tea abandoned for too long, almost as if the ground is stealing his warmth to play summer. Still, he goes through the motions – gets up, eats a bit less than he usually would, works in his garden and reads his books, doesn't sleep half as much as he ought to. It's a convincing act. Maybe he should have become a thespian, Bilbo thinks, unaware that he's hardly fooling anyone, except maybe himself, from time to time.

His birthday comes around, marking the last day of summer. Bilbo doesn't even think of throwing a party – horribly unsocial of him, he's told by several of his relatives and cares precisely zilch for the the unwanted input – but he does end up with a house full of Gamgees despite his best efforts to hide from the world.

“I swear on my feet, Mister Bilbo, you're wasting away!” Bell Gamgee exclaims, fretting over Bilbo as she pulls out dish after dish from a wicker picnic basket, quickly managing to produce a small feast on Bilbo's table. “Look at you...I remember a time when that waistcoat was a tad tight around the middle, but you could fit block of cheese under it now and you'd still have some space left.”

Bilbo offers a polite smile. She means well, he reminds himself.

“The heat dampened my appetite some, I'm afraid.”

“Well, that'll soon be fixed”, Bell decides. “There's plenty of food here and...Oi! You two!” she ever-so-delicately addresses two of her children who are currently set on climbing every piece of furniture Bilbo owns. “Off that glory box, this instance!”

Bag End is filled with noise – cutlery being scraped against wood and porcelain, children shrieking in delight, Hamfast's booming laughter that reminds Bilbo of Gloin, and Bells ceaseless chatter creating a backdrop of warmth and familiarity. Bilbo is thankful to them, if almost grudgingly, for giving him something he didn't necessarily want, but most undeniably needed.

They're not family, but they're nice people and Bilbo's always been fond of them.

“It's alright, Bell”, he says. “That box survived worse.” Bilbo doesn't say that the ' _worse'_ was actually better, that it was the best that's ever happened to Bag End and to its owner.

“Don't say that, they'll take it as a challenge”, Bell warns in that exhausted-but-fond tone of voice that comes hand in hand with parenthood. Bilbo chuckles, and is surprised to find he's not forcing it as much as he expected to.

“Still...if they scratch it thoroughly enough, it might put off Lobelia from trying to snatch it away once and for all.”

Hamfast and Bell laugh, and Bilbo loves them like family just then, because they make it look so easy. They're lending him some of the happiness, in a way, letting him live by proxy that what he will never have on his own. He is thankful, he truly is.

Still, a small part of him is angry because his plan for the evening got derailed. Not that it was some spectacular sort of plan that one couldn't easily reschedule. In fact, it consisted mostly of him, sitting in his chair or lying in bed, the Ring firmly on his fingers, his eyes straining to make out the shifty shadows that moved in the word with the Ring on. That's the plan every evening, really, if Bilbo is being honest. Which he tends to be less and less these days, with his neighbours, at least.

It all started a month ago. He was sitting with the Ring on, one afternoon, idly looking at the spectral forms dashing around him when he saw it. The shape moved too quickly for Bilbo to be sure, but the mere possibility was enough for a seed to be planted – one that Bilbo's been nurturing like a sprout of deathly nightshade ever since, growing a poison and ignoring the fact that it could be lethal.

It wasn't so impossible, after all. Bilbo knew little about the world of the Ring. Was it really so unbelievable, then, that he might have seen Thorin's ghost? The heart sees what the heart yearns for, of course, but tell that to the mind which is easy to believe the trickster heart at any given moment.

He didn't put the Ring on for days after that, but eventually the maddening possibility won. His escape became a desperate hope, the very thing he used to hide from now becoming the thing he sought out in his old hiding place.

It was masochistic. It was unhealthy, to say the least. It was his last hope, the one he'd already given up on.

So, ever since, he's been spending most of his free time searching in the shadows, looking for any tell-tale sign that it was indeed Thorin. Bilbo doesn't know what he would do if he actually found him. There's a whole myriad of possibilities. All he knows is that if there is even the slightest chance, he must try.

“Don't touch that!”

The room grows deadly quiet, and it takes Bilbo a second to realise he's spoken. Well, roared, to be more precise. Several pairs of bewildered eyes are on him, staring in shock. Bilbo doesn't really remember getting up, but apparently he has, seeing as he's currently standing in front of the mantelpiece, clutching the Ring in his fist. He's left it there, recklessly, while changing and forgot to put it back in his pocket after because his guests arrived and then all hell broke loose in the form of their children overtaking Bag End.

In front of Bilbo, a small hobbit – barely older than a toddler – is looking up at him, eyes wide and shiny with frightened tears. Bilbo looks down at her and recoils, clamping a hand over his mouth. She was reaching for the Ring, probably drawn by the shiny thing, but Bilbo just remembers the blinding _need_ to snatch it away from her and the blind drive to do whatever was needed to do so. She's just a fauntling, for Eru's sake.

“Rosie, darling, come here”, Bell says cautiously. She's holding her youngest – Sam – in her arms, and motioning for her daughter to come over. Bilbo turns to her, his eyes wide and apologetic, frightened in the same way Rosie's are. They're scared of the same monster, it would seem.

“I'm sorry”, he offers weakly. “I'm so sorry, I...”

“It's alright, Mister Bilbo” Hamfast offers, his voice a bit cold but concerned nonetheless. “Rosie should have asked before touching your things, isn't that right, Rosie?”

The little hobbit nods, still looking at Bilbo as if he were a dragon from one of Gandalf's stories.

“We should go”, Hamfast announces.

“Oh, no, don't, you don't have to...” Bilbo starts, but Hamfast interrupts him with a kind smile.

“We really should. Need to get the youngsters to bed and I myself am quite tired.”

“Well...If you're certain...”, Bilbo trails off. He can recognise an excuse when he hears one, but he cannot blame Hamfast for not wanting to stay. Bilbo is thankful for the excuse and the pretence, sure that he doesn't deserve even that much at the moment.

The Gamgees gather their children and slowly usher them out the door.

“Good night, Mister Bilbo”, Bell says. “I'll come by tomorrow to pick up the dishes and all.”

“Thank you”, Bilbo replies, shame burning in his stomach like acid. “And thank you for coming, truly. It was a lovely birthday.”

“Of course. Many happy returns, once again.”

“Thank you.”

She nods her goodbye and Hamfast tips his hat, and then they're off. Bilbo stands in the doorway and feels so very guilty and horribly alone. And to add insult to injury, he also feels deeply and thoroughly disgusted by the small part of him that is happy that he is alone, because it means he can spend yet another night trying to catch Thorin's shadow.

He wishes he could believe that he will just go to bed tonight, contrite in the knowledge that he's just mistreated his friends horribly. But he knows he won't. It's that simple.

And if Bilbo could see clearly, he would realise that the heart is so easily fooled by simple tricks of light and malicious intent, that he is being played like a poorly-tuned fiddle.

But he doesn't.

Of course, he doesn't. How could he? Give muddy water to a man dying of thirst, and he'll drink it even if it kills him. Give hope to the hopeless and they won't think twice about it. Give a broken promise to a broke heart, and it won't question you if it's real.

Bilbo is slipping, and somewhere deep down he might even know it. The problem is that, at this point, he's not sure if he cares anymore.

 

 

* * *

Thorin buys a pony in the nearest village after leaving Sprita and heads for the mountain pass at Rohan. The Brown Lands are wast and windy, wild and gorgeous. Thorin's skin gets sun-burnt and wind-whipped, and his wounded leg twinges as he overexerts it, riding day in and day out over rocky planes filled with sparse tall grass. He stops rarely, only to buy food and change ponies every now and then.

He rides west, chasing the falling sun every day, but it always escapes before Thorin can reach the horizon. Ori's prediction ends up being rather on point (not that Thorin would know this). It takes Thorin seven months to reach the Shire.

At any other time, he would probably even take the time to admire the view and the slowly changing scenery – the endless stretches of land that precede Helm's deep, the towering mountain peeks around Rohan, then the soggy marshes that gradually grow into the emerald green borders of the Shire.

It's a long journey, and a lonely one, too. Thorin starts talking to his ponies just so he doesn't forget how to speak at all (and doesn't eve try to defend himself against the memory of Bilbo doing the same while on their quest). They never answer, of course, but they prove themselves very good listeners, quiet and content as long as there's grass to chew on.

Thorin hopes that he's made a good start, and gained some time. Surely the orcs couldn't have travelled as fast as he, even if they had in fact already departed from Mordor. He refuses to think about what awaits him in Hobbiton if they did.

That particular worry leads to the next. Thorin's plan is simple – to bring Bilbo to Erebor, where he'll be safe. Or at least, safer than he is now, protected only by his front door and a few twining weeds that grow around it (they're actually climbing roses, but Thorin doesn't know this).

Of course, if orcs are a danger to the Shire because of Bilbo, then bringing Bilbo to Erebor means bringing the orcs to the Mountain's gates. Thorin is acutely aware of this. It's not the happiest solution, not by a mile. And the dwarves of Erebor owe no favour to Thorin. But they do to Bilbo.

Bilbo, who faced off with a dragon and saved them from an unnecessary war just before a much more unavoidable battle came knocking at their door. Bilbo, who was brave when Thorin was weak, who was strong when Thorin almost forgot who he was. Erebor owes Bilbo more than they could ever repay, but this is something they can do to prove that Dwarves never forget their debts nor do their gratefulness. Besides, Mahal knows they'd probably be gravely offended by any implication that they are anything other than perfectly capable of defending their home. Thorin knows that not one dwarf in that mountain would shy from taking up arms to defend their home, kin, and friends. ' _It is not in their blood'_ , the words echo, bittersweet and proud.

That very string of thoughts is running through his head the afternoon when he reaches the shores of the Brandywine river. It's a calmer river than River Running, more in tune with the rolling hills and the overall softness of the Shire. Still, it's water is deep and cool, and Thorin lets his pony drink while he splashes his face and neck, trying to drive away the heat of a full day's ride. Autumn has already begun to paint the trees around him in warm colours, and all around fields are in various states of being harvested – some already stripped bare of their riches, and other's still rich with produce.

The picture is serenity incarnated, complete with the chirping of birds. Or at least if would be, if there were not for the yelp that pierces the air just then.

“Help!”

Thorin whips his head around, only to see a small boat being upturned a bit further down by the river. He catches a glimpse of two hobbits disappearing under the water.

' _We're not the best of swimmers',_ Bilbo explained once, after their infamous barrel-ride escape from Thranduil's dungeons. The words come back to Thorin now, propelling him into motion without a second thought.

He shucks his heavy boots and overcoat, and dives into the chilly water. The rest of his clothes get soaked right away, dragging him down, but Thorin kicks at the water savagely, trying to move in the right direction. He opens his eyes underwater, but the swirling bubbles obscure his view, so he navigates using the blurred forms and the splashing somewhere to his left. The current is strong, stronger than it looks from the surface, but he manages to grab a handful of drenched cloth by blindly groping in the water. He drags first one and then another small, flailing body onto the grassy shore, both sputtering and coughing as they gulp down air.

The sight of two hobbits with their curly hair plastered to their head, ears sticking out, evokes the images of another hobbit, a lifetime ago, drenched to the skin and clinging to a barrel, on a river much wilder than this one. The memory pulls at something in Thorin's chest and he can't decide if he feels like crying or laughing. He does neither, in the end, opting instead for squeezing water out of his hair and shaking it out of his ears.

“Are you alright?” he asks, sweeping his gaze over the hobbits.

“Quite, quite, thank you”, the male hobbit wheezes out. “We're forever in your debt, Master...?”

“Dwalin”, Thorin says, caught a bit off guard and answering automatically before he can think of it. Dwalin would probably be rolling with laughter if he heard him, but what Dwalin doesn't know, can't hurt him. Or give him cause to tease Thorin for the rest of their days. There's no real danger, he supposes. Dwarven royal lineage is not a matter of interest to hobbits, as far as Thorin is aware, so he hopes no one recognises him around this parts, apart from the one person who should.

“Well, thank you, Master Dwalin”, the hobbit bows. It's rather a funny picture he paints, his finery sticking awkwardly to his body, his eyelashes spiky and darkened by the water. “Drogo Baggins, at your service. And this is my wife, Primula.”

“Who is perfectly capable of introducing herself, dear”, Primula Baggins chastises softy, offering Thorin is a kind smile. “At your service.”

“And at yours”, Thorin replies. It's so strange to hear Bilbo's last name like this, so casually said, like it doesn't twist some chord in Thorin's chest with vicious intensity. “What happened?”

“A freak wave. Came out of nowhere”, Drogo answers. “Knocked right us over, and then we got pulled under.”

“Good thing you were near by”, Primula adds, watching Thorin with interest.

“Yes. Really good luck”, Drogo smiles as well, and they are both so warm, so bright, even after a fright like the one they've just had, that Thorin finds himself smiling back before he knows he's doing it.

“You must come to dinner!” Drogo exlaims, as if he's only remembering himself now.

“Thank you for the offer, but...”

“We insist, don't we, Prim?”

“We do”, Primula answers. She seems much more calm than her husband, a good contrast to his exuberance. “But it seems to me that we've already interrupted Mister Dwalin's journey and taken up quite a bit of his time.”

“Oh, yes, certainly...” Drogo looks so crestfallen that Thorin is almost tempted to accept the dinner invitation. Almost, but not quite. He is so close now that he must restrain himself from running the last few miles that separate him from Bilbo's door.

“Another time, maybe”, he excuses himself as gracefully as he can.

“Of course”, Primula smiles. “Is there anything else we can do to thank you?”

Well. Now that Thorin thinks of it...He is _not really_ quite certain which way he's meant to go.

“Could you, perhaps, point me in the direction of Bag End?”

“Oh, are you a visitor of Bilbo's?” Drogo asks. “Good to see he's being more social these days. He's been rather down lately, really...”

“Come on, dear”, Primula says, gently interrupting her husband. Her eyes skim over Thorin, and whatever she sees there, obviously tells her enough to touch her husband's arm and stop his babbling. “Let's show Master Dwalin and let him be on his way.”

Thorin smiles thankfully, and follows the pair, who are still dripping but quickly drying in the heat of the dying day. They sun is slowly slipping down towards the hills, and Thorin calculates that he will reach Bag End with the last light. They chatter – Drogo mostly, Prim at times, and Thorin almost not at all – and slowly make their way through the woods, the trees growing sparser until they finally reach the dusty road.

“Just go straight until you reach the fork in the road, ad then turn left”, Prim points. “You're just a few minutes away.”

“Thank you”, Thorin says, “And please, stay away from deep water for a while.”

“We will”, they both laugh as they wave goodbye.

Thorin turns the way they've showed him. The short distance seems longer than the whole way he's travelled so far and his boots are heavier than they've got the right to be. He can see the round green door after a few steps, and something in him wants to run away.

He doesn't. Of course, he doesn't. It's not in his blood, either.

 

 

* * *

The Sun sets early these days, worn out by the summer's infinite heat and quick to tire. Long shadows mile around Bilbo's kitchen as he puts away the washed dishes, the walls and tile painted bright orange by the light beyond the windows.

He considers reading a bit, while there's still natural light, or maybe taking a stroll. Both ideas are listlessly discarded. He will build a fire and then sit in front of it for a while. He might slip the Ring on again. That always helps. In a way.

Truth be told, Bilbo feels as if time slows down with the Ring. Like he's buying minutes, or stealing them, living up to his former title of Burglar. He doesn't know what he's stealing them for, but it feels important nonetheless. Maybe with enough stolen time, he can exchange it to buy a few more days for those whose time was ruthlessly stolen from them. It makes sense, in its own twisted way.

Speaking of minutes, Bilbo casts a look at the clock on the mantel, which shows just a few minutes after four. It's too early to go to bed, by any given standard, Bilbo knows. It's barely past tea time. Not that anyone would know if he went to bed now... But no. Bilbo sighs, rubbing his face, tired. Exhausted. Yes, that's the word for it. He is so utterly, thoroughly exhausted.

He is still standing in the middle of the room, lost in thought, when the knock on the door comes.

-

Standing in front of Bilbo's green door, Thorin is distantly amused at himself. He's afraid, he realises. Some warrior he is. But this is not the fear of battle or the panic of dying. Those are visceral and rampant. This is a fear that feels almost gentle in its wholeness. Like an indecisive wind playing with a dry leaf, deciding on its faith in gentle swoops. This is what it all comes down to, and Thorin is afraid. It's by far the simplest feeling he could have hoped for, and for that, Thorin is grateful. Fear is familiar. He knows what to do with it.

Maybe it's the fatigue of travel or the lack of sleep, but Thorin feels giddy. His head is too light, floating. His hand does not feel like his own when he raises it to knock.

' _I'm sorry'_ Thorin plans to say. ' _I'm sorry, because I was wrong again. Did you plan the acorn? Or did you cast it away the way I did you? Did you say goodbye to the others? Were they alright? Are you alright?'_

He plans on saying a great deal of things. But when the door opens all that flees his mind, and all that Thorin's left with is the bare truth, his voice is cracked, like dry earth thirsting for rain in high months of summer.

“I got lost. Twice.”

 

 

* * *

Bag End is almost overly warm for the time of year, with a small fire burning in the hearth. The autumn air outside is bordering on chilly, rich with the smells of harvest, upturned soil, and bonfire smoke.

Thorin is seated at Bilbo's dinner table, in the same spot he'd sat the first time he'd arrived over a year ago, after weeks of travel, eating the first decent meal in days and informing what would become known as his Company that they were on their own. Sometimes he barely remembers the Dwarf who sat in his place and lead twelve Dwarves and a hobbit against a dragon. That Dwarf seems much younger and much more foolish, and Thorin thinks he is buried somewhere beneath the heavy soil of the battlefield or in the cold silences left in the wake of Fili's and Kili's death.

He can hear Bilbo puttering around in the kitchen, and in his mind's eye Thorin sees him clearly. Bilbo moves like a wind-up toy – with precision, but his movements are on the verge of listlessness, ending as soon as they've served their purpose. It is not the movement of the truly living and it unnerves Thorin. Perhaps Bilbo is sick or still suffering from some wound gained during the Battle. But it has been almost a year now. Bilbo should have healed. It was unacceptable for Bilbo to be anything than perfectly alright, safe and sound back in the comfort of his home.

He hasn't said much since opening the door. He just went very pale and very still, looking, for some unfathomable reason, at his hand before looking back at Thorin. They just stood there for a few moments before Bilbo moved and said “Well. Come in, then”. So Thorin did. He came in and followed Bilbo to the table.

“Sit”, Bilbo ordered in a colourless voice, and Thorin went as easily as a lamb. Bilbo looked at him them, eyes unreadable and sharp, but still the most beautiful thing Thorin's seen in so long. He wanted to touch Bilbo, anywhere, just to make sure he was really there. But he didn't – because it didn't seem like Bilbo wanted him to, because Thorin's hands refused to obey his mind, because his mind was a frenzy. He could only breathe and hope. Everything else was too much of a challenge just then.

Bilbo, on his part, seemed to be handling the walking dead with a significant amount of grace. He looked at Thorin for a long time, saying nothing, and Thorin didn't want to break the silence. He knew (without knowing _how_ he knew) that Bilbo had to be the one to speak first. Only, Bilbo didn't. He just looked at Thorin for the longest time and said nothing. And then he sighed – the way the earth does as it settles in late autumn, or a house as it settles into its foundations – and clenched his fist once, twice, before turning half-way to the kitchen.

“I suppose you're hungry”, he said, only when he wasn't facing Thorin anymore.

“Yes”, was all Thorin could come up with, his voice too loud and too quiet at the same time.

And so they ended up here, Thorin at the table and Bilbo going about feeding him. It's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. There are no tears, no shouting (not that Thorin wishes for those), not even questions. There should be...something. Anything. And yet – there isn't. And Thorin doesn't know what to do with that. (Maybe, just maybe, Bilbo doesn't either.)

But then the sound of pottery shattering against tile rings through the space and through the slightly ajar door, Thorin can see Bilbo burying his face in his palms for a span of a breath, before he crouches to pick up the scattered shards. The resigned slope of the hobbit's shoulder's sparks recognition in Thorin. He'd seen this sort of imitation of living before, decades ago, in the bleakness of Ered Luin. He'd watched Dis move through life like an automaton for months, if not years, just after Vili's death.

Bilbo is not sick, Thorin realises. And the wound that is paining him is one that cares not for the healing properties of time.

Bilbo is grieving. Still grieving.

Thorin doesn't get a chance to recover from this revelation because Bilbo returns from the kitchen, carrying a plate piled with sausages, roasted vegetable roots, and thin slices of rough black bread. He puts it before Thorin, not bothering to look at the Dwarf.

“There is some ale in the first pantry and some more bread, if you'll be wanting any. The guest room is down the hall, second door on the left. I would give you a candle, but I assume you won't be needing one. Please put out the lights when you're done here.”

“Bilbo”, Thorin tries, because he must, because the pain was never supposed to be Bilbo's, never supposed to plague him for so long. Bilbo was supposed to move on. That was the whole point.

“Goodnight.”

Thorin doesn't persist. He knows he has no right to. Instead, he listens to Bilbo's retreating steps, staring unseeingly at the meal in front of him. Despite his empty stomach, Thorin pushes the plate away, the smell of food only worsening the sick feeling that rises in his throat.

The footsteps stop, but there is no sound of a door opening or closing. Bag End is so quiet that Thorin imagines he could hear Bilbo breathing if only it were not for his own ragged breaths and loud heart. He doesn't have to look to know Bilbo hasn't gone to his room. But Thorin looks anyway, simply because he can, after spending so much time not being able to.

The foyer is in half-gloom, lit golden on one side from the embers glowing in the hearth, and silver from the windows by the door, where moonlight spills in like a cold blessing. It is beautiful, the way contrast always is, the way ethereal things are, present but untouchable. It looks like some masterful craft, this weaving of light. Like gold and mithril, and all the things Thorin once thought precious for their immutability. He thinks them precious no longer. Thorin doesn't see the lovely clash of light, so useless in its beauty, nor does he care for it. Instead, he looks at the figure standing on the borders of shadows where the light mixes.

Bilbo is standing with his back to the dining room and Thorin, his head bent. The shadows cut across him cruelly from windows beside his front door, paint his right, tightly fisted hand monochrome and faded. Tension radiates off the hobbit like heat off dragon's breath, an air of a thing coiled tightly to the point of fragile brittleness surrounding him. Thorin is a smith, so he knows that any blade, no matter how strong, shatters if made too rigid. Bilbo is strong, in ways in which Thorin has never been. Strong, and stubborn, and cracking. The cracks running through Bilbo are not as visible as ones on stone or steel, but Thorin can see them nonetheless – in the speed of Bilbo's breathing and the clench of his fists, in the stillness of his body. Thorin knows broken things, he knows wounded animals, ruined people. He'd lived among such things all his life. He knows what falling apart looks like.

More importantly, he knows Bilbo. Or at least he hopes he still does.

When Thorin moves from his chair and crosses the distance so he is standing a single step from Bilbo, it is not a rational choice on his part to do so, but a reflex, much like flinching a hand away from the fire or howling when suddenly hurt. He raises a hand to touch Bilbo's shoulder, but decides against it at the last moment, his hand trapped lingering in vacuum. They look like one of the stone statues in Erebor, the two of them, standing still in the moon- and firelight, in that perpetual almost-touching of theirs.

“Bilbo...”

“Just...don't.” Brittle voice and brittle words. Thorin's hand falls away, even as he wants to reach out and seal the cracks in Bilbo's voice. But he can't tell if Bilbo is telling him not to touch or to simply stop this whole thing entirely. Before Thorin can decide, Bilbo turns around. Bilbo's eyes are wide and raw and wrecked, meeting Thorin's in something close to bewilderment.

“Thorin.”

He says Thorin's name like a sentence, like a self-contained unit of meaning, like Thorin should know what that means. He finally says it – like a plea and a command, a reprimand – and it is only then that Thorin realises it is the first time he's done so since he'd showed up on Bilbo's doorstep. His name on Bilbo's lips brings Thorin back into existence, a confirmation of all things right and true in the world, even if it is said with pain and hope and such yearning that it makes it hard for Thorin to breathe. He can't reply, doesn't even know if it is expected of him, so Thorin just nods, as if in confirmation.

It's the watershed, it would seem, and something in Bilbo's eyes shifts – thaws, shatters, springs up – and then he is pressing up, kissing Thorin the way the dying cling to life.

Later, Thorin will not remember the way their noses bump together at first, or that the reason why his hands find themselves grasping at the small of Bilbo's back is because they almost lose balance so he reaches out for the one safety he knows.

He will only remember that Bilbo's lips were warm, dry and chapped against his, and that the feel of them was like a punch to the gut that he would have suffered times again.

It tastes like salt – like the riches of old and the currency in which life is paid for. It's as much a kiss as it is a rescue mission, or a battle cry, right in all the wrong ways, and even though Thorin wishes for an armistice, he will take whatever he can get.

One of Thorin's hands travels up until he is cradling the back of Bilbo's head as Bilbo's lips part beneath his. Bilbo nips at Thorin's bottom lip, almost in anger, a chastisement of the best sort. If he were to draw blood, Thorin doubts he would mind at all.

But Bilbo doesn't. He soothes his bites by pressing in again, kissing slowly and tenderly over any abused skin, causing an ache in Thorin's chest that is much more unbearable than the sharp pull of teeth. It makes Thorin gasp softly against Bilbo's lips and for a span of a heartbeat they only breathe each other's air before breathing becomes a bother and air only a secondary need.

This time Thorin kisses back more fervently, exhaling sharply through his nose as he clutches at Bilbo's back and cards his fingers through his curls. Bilbo makes a pained sound, not quite a sob or a moan, but something in-between, a visceral sort of ache fleeing from him. At the first flick of Bilbo's tongue against his, Thorin almost forgets his own name. When Bilbo's hands travel from where they are braced on Thorin's shoulders to his face, small and cold-skinned where they settle on his cheeks, Thorin finds himself uncaring of his own name as long as he remembers Bilbo's.

It hurts, overwhelming but not enough, only a kiss where it should stand for more.

Thorin kisses and wants to make it an apology and a promise, wants to make it the homecoming it is and the vow he hopes it could be. He wants to makes it a confession and an absolution, a sinner’s salvation and a traveller's respite. He wants to make amends.

Bilbo kisses back and wants to make it a punishment, just a bit, but not really. He wants to make himself believe. Or forget. Quite honestly, Bilbo doesn't know what he wants. Which is why the kiss is easy – because it could never possibly be all those things. And so Bilbo is spared from having to know what he wants, if only for a while.

The kiss lasts and lasts, but it ends too soon even so, as they part for breath. Thorin would be happy never to breathe again if it would mean not having to stop. He would happily die in this moment, but it would be such a waste to die just as he is beginning to live again. It all makes sense now – why he survived his travels and all that took place in the meantime. A thing that does not live cannot die, and Thorin realises he hasn't been alive since the moment he left Erebor, or maybe even longer, not truly.

He presses his forehead against Bilbo's, their breaths coming fast and ragged, mixing, over a year's worth of life fighting its way into their lungs. He brushes his thumbs across Bilbo's cheeks, where the hobbit's face is still cradled in his hands. He leans in for another kiss, short and tentative, almost chaste in how soft it is against Bilbo's lips.

Bilbo's eyes are closed, almost pinched shut, and as much as Thorin wishes to see them, the blue of them and the life in them, a part of him is relieved. Shut, Bilbo's eyes are safe. Open, they scare Thorin more than death ever could. Thorin is afraid of Bilbo's eyes the way all breathing things are afraid of deep water and the longing they feel for it against their better judgement. He is afraid of drowning. He is afraid of thirst. Afraid of the bones that lie at the bottom, mementos of past lives.

All things considered, Thorin muses, he's turning into a right coward. But cowardice can be a fault, or room for improvement. No bravery was ever found amongst fearlessness, his father used to say. For Bilbo, Thorin thinks, he could learn to be brave.

“Bilbo...”, he echoes, says Bilbo's name instead of the countless other important things he can't recall at the moment and somehow that's _more._ Thorin just hopes it's enough.

It isn't, of course.

Bilbo's eyes fly open at the sound of his name. The blue is shattered, shards of broken glass where Thorin used to see the sky. Whatever the feeling there, Thorin can't name it, but if he were pressed to, he'd say Bilbo looks almost panicked.

He moves away from Thorin, one hand rising up to his mouth, almost as if Bilbo is checking for evidence there. The look of him remind Thorin of the two hobbits he pulled out of the river earlier that day – drowning, helpless against the current's pull.

Before Thorin can speak again, Bilbo shakes his head and disappears into his room. And Thorin lets him go. What else is there for him to do?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mirdautas vras [It is a good day to kill]  
> Ma ajag na Shire [more of that in the Shire]  
> Tirnel - star gazer  
> *falls asleep for a week*


	5. The midnight burial of our demise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, so since I've been taking forever with this chapter, I decided to break it up. It was supposed to be another really long one, but by the look of things that might take a while so here's a rather short chapter, and the rest will be in chapter 6. I've fixed the chapter count accordingly :)

* * *

The bedroom door closes with a loud thud and Bilbo is left leaning against it, letting the solid wood hold up his weight. Everything else seems very ethereal at the moment. He can't be sure – which is understandable, after all – but Bilbo thinks that maybe all reality just flew out the front door when he opened it to find Thorin on the other side, very much not dead.

The first thing Bilbo did was look at his hand, checking if he was still wearing the Ring. Surely, that was the only possible explanation – he forgot to take the Ring off and perhaps he finally caught a ghost. Only, his hand was bare and ring-less, and common sense dictated that ghosts did not speak in half-broken voices of long-time travellers.

“I got lost. Twice”, Thorin said, a year's worth of loneliness rushing and breaking on those words like waves on the shore of a distant sea, salty and unrelenting, and Bilbo couldn't tell whose loneliness it was, precisely. He could only take in the familiar face in front of him, looking for all the world like every memory Bilbo had tried running away from and then chased after, once the running had failed. It was funny, but the only though that ran through Bilbo's head was ' _he looks smaller'_. He wasn't even sure what that meant, to be honest, but it was all he could think.

Bilbo was faintly aware that he should be feeling something. Anything. A rush of relief, a pang of anger, the tingling sweep of disbelief. Anything at all. And yet, nothing came, no feeling of falling or the world tilting, no bloom of colour in a world of grey. He could have easily remained standing there, numb and still, for an age, if only it were not for the fact that time hadn't actually stilled. It was just Bilbo that somehow fell out of time, unsure how it played into this whole impossibility.

So Bilbo fell back onto the basest of his habits, those that he had been raised on since he could speak. He may have been lost for words (and thoughts, and feelings) for the time being, but Bilbo was always and above all, a good host. And good hosts didn't leave their guests standing in the front yard, no matter how unexpected (or impossible).

“Well. Come in, then”, he said, and really, at any other time, in any other life, the puzzled look on Thorin's face would have been priceless. As it was, Bilbo couldn't even bring himself to point out that it was only right Thorin should be puzzled, too, and keep Bilbo company in the overall confusion, seeing as he was too torn between wanting to shut his eyes until they hurt and wanting to look until the light burnt him sightless.

Unsure if Thorin would still be there when he looked back, Bilbo turned around and marched into the cool comfort of his home. With every step, he strained to listen for the sound of footfalls following him, expecting to hear silence after every heartbeat. Expecting to wake up. Expecting another cruel trick or twist of fate, with bated breath and the tingle of sickly anticipation crawling over his skin.

Which is why every sound of Thorin following him like a scolded fauntling came as a surprise all unto its own, every beat of his heavy boots against the floorboards shivering through the wood and up the sole of Bilbo's feet, all the way up to his chest, beating like a second heart, nudging his own desolate one to beat more quickly. By the time they made it to the kitchen, Bilbo could not look back, not for the fear of finding Thorin gone, but because of the possibility of finding him still there. Because that was a hope Bilbo could not afford. It would have overwhelmed him, completely. And if taken away, at any point, it would have shattered him.

So, he didn't look, and if it was cowardice on his part, then Bilbo thinks he is allowed some. Bravery is for warriors and great heroes, not burglars and the gentlefolk of the Shire. Or so Bilbo told himself. He'd liked to see someone else dealing with... _this,_ thank you very much. Because _'this'_ was Bilbo's every desperate plea answered and all his mourning made somehow obsolete. ' _T_ _his'_ was Thorin sitting at Bilbo's table, alive and impossible. There was no tale or etiquette lesson that ever taught him how to deal with undead guests.

Bilbo's hands moved on their own accord, going through the motions of cooking like they had thousands of times before, and Bilbo thought for a moment that he might just be able to pull it all off. Whatever it was. Then the cup slipped and shattered, and the figure at the table moved, and Bilbo buried his face in his palms, as if that would help the matters. But the darkness there was simple and forgiving and Bilbo fled to it like a chick to a hen's warm wing.

Thorin might still have been an apparition, for all Bilbo knew, and maybe Bilbo was finally living up to his nickname of 'Mad Baggins', seeing the dead now. Maybe the Ring had finally gotten to him. Bilbo knew that it has been worming its way into his darkest spaces for some time now. Of course he knew. There was a difference between being blind and choosing not to see. And Bilbo wasn't blind.

But he couldn't stay standing with his head buried in the proverbial sand forever, so Bilbo did what he always did – he pushed on. Even if it meant keeping his head bent slightly, and not meeting Thorin's eyes. It was for the best, Bilbo decided, because he honestly couldn't say what he would do if he looked up and into those eyes. Surely nothing that would have made things less complicated. And Bilbo never thought himself particularly strong, but even he couldn't deny that it was only with unearthly amounts of strength that he managed to get as far as he did, all the way to the foyer, with Thorin's voice calling his name like it was a lifeline. As if he knew that if he said it just like that – like Bilbo was the only one able to save him – Bilbo would be rendered helpless. Thorin called out his name as if Bilbo held his life in his hands, and that was a low trick, an utmost unfairness, because how could Bilbo refuse? How could he just walk away, when he'd already felt it slip through his fingers?

So, he stood, trapped by Thorin's voice and his own traitorous heart which was so far gone in believing it all to be real, on one side, and his mind that clung onto the last of doubts, fighting a losing battle to keep up the shields and ward off hope. And it almost worked.

Only then Thorin was right there, in Bilbo's space, and his hand was solid and warm where it hovered over Bilbo's shoulder and Bilbo knew it was the tipping point.

“Bilbo...” Thorin said again, and oh, Yvanna, Bilbo was lost.

“Just...don't”, he said, and maybe he was speaking to Thorin, asking him not to be a ghost, asking him not to ask of Bilbo more than Bilbo could give, or maybe he was speaking to his own yielding soul, a last, desperate plea not to leap off the edge of sanity and give itself over to the mercy of the clashing storm raging inside Bilbo's very bones. Maybe he was speaking to both, and he wasn't quite sure, but in the end it made no difference. Thorin listened, but Bilbo's heart did not, which is why he turned around and did the very thing he knew would just make everything messier. But, oh, what a beautiful mess it was.

Thorin's face was washed clean by the moonlight, and Bilbo almost reached out to touch it. It looked softer than he'd ever seen it, older and younger at the same time, and very, very real. And Thorin looked...relieved, and scared, for some unfathomable reason, and Bilbo had no other choice than to give in.

“Thorin...”, he said, because he had to check, and the saying Thorin's name felt like finally breathing in, like it had been stuck in Bilbo's chest for months, choking him. It felt right. And then Thorin nodded, answering the question Bilbo didn't dare actually ask, and that was that.

Bilbo wanted to laugh, because Thorin looked _scared_ and _relieved_ and Bilbo didn't know why that was a laughing matter, but it just was, because Thorin was _dead_ just hours ago, and the fact that he looked any way at all was making Bilbo giddy. He should have sat them both down and talked, maybe. Probably. It was the only reasonable, proper thing to do. Very sensible.

But of course, because Bilbo _never_ did what was proper anymore and because he _always_ had to listen to the by-far the least reasonable part of himself, he kissed him. And if you asked Bilbo why he did it, he would tell you that he doesn't know. He would be lying, naturally.

Maybe he kissed Thorin because he wanted his stolen life back and Thorin's mouth looked like a good place where to lay his claims, stealing Thorin's air in search of the breathing, living thing that died on that frozen battlefield, be it Thorin or himself, Bilbo isn't sure.

Maybe he did it because he need to make sure Thorin didn't say his name again and undid him completely. Or because he needed the final confirmation that Thorin was really there. Any of it was as good a reason as any.

But the truth, as it usually happens, was much simpler.

Bilbo kissed Thorin because he wanted to. And for a very long time, too. He can still feel Thorin's lips against his, feel the way Thorin's hands reached for him. He is cold all the time these days, stoking the fire from dawn to dusk, but to no avail. Yet with Thorin's arms around him, so infinitely warm, Bilbo finally felt feeling seep back into his numb limbs. It hurt the way a fallen-asleep leg hurts as it tingles back into sensation. Bilbo's been cold for so long that when Thorin came with all his unexpected heat, it hurt like embers being thrust into frost-bitten hands. Brazen, impossible promises to a longing heart.

He should be happy. And grateful. And angry, yes, definitely. Bilbo should be so many things at the moment, things he is not. As it is, all he can feel is a buzz somewhere deep within himself, undefined and nameless. A will-o'-the-whisp sort of hum calling to him with a reminder of what it was like when life was something vivid. A memory of a feeling, but also a possibility of reviving it.

He loved – _loves_ – Thorin more than life, which possibly explains why he'd been moving through it like a shadow ever since that afternoon when he'd found his friends in his room, waiting to tell him of Thorin's demise. And why seeing Thorin again feels like a punch to the gut. Or the re-starting of his heart. Coming back to life is a painful business, it would seem, as painful as dying. Possibly even more so. And Bilbo's been living this half-life of his for quite some time.

Now, he is not entirely sure he knows how to start living again.

Bilbo doesn't sleep. He's pretty sure that he couldn't even if he tried, and he doesn't want to try, really, because if he falls asleep, then maybe he'll wake up and find everything to have been just a dream. This way, he can't wake up, so even if it all is a dream anyway, then Bilbo can stay asleep forever.

Eventually, he makes it to his desk and lights a candle. He strips his waistcoat by habit, and removes his suspenders. As he leaves the thread-decorated silk on the back of a chair, he remembers the Ring, which waits, as always, in one of the pockets.

For all intents and purposes, it should be taunting Bilbo mercilessly, but the opposite happens. Not that the Ring doesn't try – it does, and it pulls no punches. Bilbo can hear it, the little voice in the back of his mind, a presence that has long become constant during the past months. It whispers and promises, convinces and warns, but for the first time in a long time, Bilbo realises he can ignore it with unusual ease. The voice is quieter now, for some reason or another, as if the empty space that allowed it to echo through Bilbo's soul has disappeared. And maybe it's because everything inside Bilbo is very loud at the moment, or because he is too focused on listening to his own beating heart on one hand, and for any sound of Thorin moving around outside his bedroom door, on the other, but either way, the Ring doesn't stand a chance. It howls like a spoilt kitten demanding attention, but Bilbo just hasn't got any to spare. What's more, even if he did, he doubts he'd be willing to spare any. It's a strange feeling, to be so free of it after so long, but Bilbo's head feels much clearer despite, or maybe specifically because, of all the confusion currently coursing through him. So, he leaves the Ring in the left pocket of his waistcoat and moves to sit on the bed.

A few times through the night he almost goes back out to Thorin, but something stops him every time. He hasn't cried since that last night in Erebor, on the perch by the hidden door. He cried then, not least of all for himself and the part of him that died with Thorin, but ever since, tears seemed like just too much effort. Too much like life and feeling and some essence Bilbo left behind to the cold stone of the mountain. Like his feet had been karst back then and all his tears had seeped down into some underground river.

And now it seems that that very river has found him again, and decided to give back what was Bilbo's. He feels the tide rising up in him, not of sadness, but just of pure feeling. The ground is paying him back with interests and it is then, sitting on his bed, still in his clothes, that Bilbo cries over Thorin Oakenshield for the second time since the Dwarf's death. This time, when he weeps, he weeps because that's the way one comes (back) into life – raw and shattered, just learning to breathe.

 

* * *

On the other side of the door, Thorin sits on the floor, propped up against the wall facing Bilbo's bedroom. He's entirely too big for the narrow corridor, like some oversized piece of furniture more suited for a grand salon than the quaint spaces of Bag End. He doesn't move to knock. In fact, he barely even allowed himself to follow Bilbo this far, and even that was only because Thorin is not a strong enough Dwarf to stay away.

After Bilbo fled and left him standing in the darkened foyer, Thorin stood for a while, rooted to the spot. His mind was a beehive, a riot of thoughts too quick to be pinned down and examined. All Thorin knew was that he was aching all over, as if his body has just remembered that he'd put it through riding and trekking across Middle-earth. His wounded leg twinged the way it tended to when he was tired, and his face felt hot, his head floating a bit. All over, his skin prickled and Thorin thought that that must be what blood whispering felt like – _Bilbo, Bilbo, Bilbo –_ an unceasing litany under his skin.

But he couldn't follow – that much Thorin knew. Instead, he turned around and went about clearing the table the best he could, putting away the dishes and not even pretending not to see the way his hands shook. Eventually there was nothing left for him to do than go to sleep, only that seemed downright obscene an idea. Thorin was convinced neither of them would be getting much sleep that night.

He had every intention of going to the guest bedroom Bilbo mentioned and waiting out the night there, only somewhere along the way Thorin got sidetracked. Somewhere just around Bilbo's bedroom door, to be precise. And it's really not Thorin's fault that he finds himself sitting on the floor outside that very door, in the end. He didn't have a say in the matter, none at all, because some part of him decided that this was his place, keeping watch, guarding Bilbo from some unknown menace that lurks in the night. You cannot blame the rain for falling towards the ground. It's gravity.

So Thorin sits on the floor and listens to the silence, wondering if he could distil any peace of mind he has and give it to Bilbo. A token of friendship. He wonders if the gods would let him make that trade – his peace for Bilbo's turmoil, his sound sleep for Bilbo's spell of insomnia. It's only fair. Maybe they would, if he stopped lying. Because friendship is not what this is. Well, to be fair, it's not much of anything at all at the moment, but even so, if it were something, it would not be friendship. Because Bilbo is to Thorin what the horizon is to the Sun – the origin and the end of his every journey, his home and resting place.

They need to talk. And then they need to get on the road. Thorin knows this, but as it is he finds it all too easy to forget the messy life outside these walls that welcome him like a guest rather than an intruder. Just for the night, he lets himself forget.

When Bilbo's sobs spill under the door and into the hallway, Thorin wants to cover his ears, simply to have something to do with his hands, which should, according to Thorin's every instinct, be cradling Bilbo's face or holding his hand, or doing anything to take away any pain still lingering. As things stand, he can only sit and listen, and it's torture.

Bilbo cries and Thorin finally understands what Sprita meant when she asked him if he'd save his own life. Because, as painful as it is, listening to Bilbo cry is a much more tangible price of redemption than any self-imposed punishment Thorin's been able to come up with. And by doing so, Thorin is saving his own life, letting Bilbo set the price and saving himself from the wretched path of self-destruction he'd set himself onto.

Sometime during the night, the crying stops, and Thorin hopes with all his heart that Bilbo is asleep. He's not, but Thorin doesn't know that. If he did, he would never let his eyes close, as they happen to do. Thorin is stolen away by sleep, not knowing that in the morning he will learn that some things never called for a punishment at all.

 


	6. Where do we being, the rubble or our sins?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear me, SO. MUCH. DIALOGUE.

* * *

The morning comes silently, catching Bilbo off-guard. He isn't even aware that he's stayed awake all night, staring out the window, until the horizon starts to pale and then blushes pink and golden. His eyes itch from lack of sleep and the abundance of tears, and Bilbo knows that in his garden the morning glories are starting to open. Dew will linger for at least an hour longer, until the autumn sun burns it away. There might even be frost in the next few days. The chestnuts will be sweet and ready for picking after, Bilbo muses distantly. He considers getting changed and going out in the garden, or for a walk, suddenly restless. Almost like all the confusion and surreality of the night suddenly got focused through a magnifying glass and burned through Bilbo, right into the marrow of his bones.

Sitting still feels like torture and the room is too small. Bilbo itches all over, in some place he can't reach, in a way that can't be helped. It's as if his whole body has been asleep for so long that now it must move, lest it forgets how to, lest it turns to stone just as life is seeping back into it. The fact that Bilbo completely forgoes his waistcoat and pads across the room with his shirt hanging loose, speaks volumes of his urgency.

But upon reaching the door, Bilbo stops, hand half-outstretched towards the knob. There is a possibility that he will open that door and find the other side empty. There is a chance that the morning sun took away whatever fantasy wondered into Bilbo's home last night, burnt it away like frost off leaves. And as long as Bilbo doesn't open the door, he can still live in the forgiving state of not knowing for sure. As long as he keeps still, there's a chance.

But Bilbo was never really good at keeping still.

He opens the door and almost trips over the booted feet that greet him there. Thorin is sprawled on the floor, asleep and half-sitting against the wall, and Bilbo is torn between endless relief, exasperated fondness that ambushes him completely, and the urge to slam the door closed again. Oh, he's being ridiculous, he knows, all contrary and indecisive and moving through emotions like a drunk Took through a lively jig, spinning too much and mucking up the steps completely.

He could just nudge Thorin's booted foot with his own bare one. It would do the trick of waking him up. Which is why Bilbo is painfully aware that it is completely unnecessary for him to bend down and gently shake Thorin by the shoulder, calling his name in a soft, early-morning voice, his face awfully close to Thorin's. He does it anyway.

“Thorin...”

Thorin's eyes flutter open and for a moment he looks completely disorientated, before his gaze focuses on Bilbo. He doesn't flinch, but it's a near thing, and from up close, Bilbo sees a dozen emotions flit across the blue before settling on bemused uncertainty that looks awfully like conflicted hope.

Thorin looks at Bilbo, and he's waiting for something, that much is obvious. Only, Bilbo doesn't know what it is he is supposed to deliver. If there was ever a memo, he never got it. So he just gazes back, and they stay like that for longer than either realises. What do you say to a dead-but-not-really almost-something first thing in the morning?

“You'll get a crick in your neck, sleeping like that.” Well. That is certainly one way of doing it. Bilbo never said he knew what he was doing.

“That's alright”, Thorin answers, still looking a bit dazed.

They should talk. They should definitely talk, Bilbo decides. Easier said than done, talking is. Bilbo wants to ask a thousand questions, and at the same time, he doesn't want to ask any at all. He's not really sure what he wants. It's sort of a reasonable ignorance, Bilbo thinks, seeing as only a day ago all his wishes were much simpler. A day ago, all he wanted was Thorin, alive. And now he's got that, and he's quite at loss as what he should do with it. It would appear that the easiest way to break someone is to give them exactly what they wish for. He should write that down somewhere.

“Right. Breakfast, then.” Bilbo's words are stilted and creaky, like old bones trying to dance, but it's progress, of sorts, seeing as Thorin gets up and follows into the kitchen. At least they moving forward. If only in the literal sense.

The morning sun is heavy and oppressing, too warm as it slants through the glass of the windows, as Bilbo puts out a simple breakfast and Thorin sits down. Laid out on the kitchen table, pieces of everyday life stand scattered like ruins of an abolished monarchy. A half-full jar of black currant jam rises like a prison tower, casting its shadow over last night's bread crumbs that litter the worn wood. Somewhere in the distance, someone is whistling an obscenely vivacious medley that's far too joyous for the desolate landscape of the kitchen. A round tin box filled with scones guards the space in the centre, like a colourful fortress dressed in kitschy wallpaper to deceive potential invaders. Between the jam jar and the box, runs a stretch of battlefield across which casualties of last night's meal are strewn – half a tablespoon of salt that tipped over as Thorin rose to follow Bilbo and sprinkled shiny white bodies into the trenches that run through the wood. A napkin with one end stained where it spent half the night dipped into the grease on Thorin's abandoned plate hands out of the sink. The mess is a call for the local colony of ants that lives in the cracks between the sink and the cupboards.

Bilbo sets down a bowl full of ripe, sweet figs, their purple-and-green mottled skin and deep rosy insides bright against the pale teal of the clay. Thorin reaches out almost immediately, and there's something endearing about him eating the soft, fleshy fruit like a child, sticky juice running down his fingers.

Thorin eats the way long-time travellers do. It's not impolite or reckless, but a fine mix of careful and hurried. Thorin eats the way people who don't know where their next meal will come from do. Or when.

In fact, Thorin's entire manner is subdued in a way Bilbo has never seen before. He doesn't speak or look around as he eats, and he moves efficiently, just enough to get things done. Gone is the regality of the Dwarf who first came to Bag End. That Thorin was king in all but crown. This Thorin doesn't move like a king. He moves the way lonely people do after they've been alone so long that they've grown more accustomed to the company of the road and the air than of other living things.

It's not rudeness as such, but rather this subtle forgetting of tricks of the social trade – small talk and the details of acquaintanceship left by the side of the road before one can even notice them missing. The birds and the trees have no need for etiquette. Whenever Bilbo speaks, Thorin seems almost surprised to find him there, even though they are both aware Thorin would sooner forget his own name than Bilbo's presence. It's funny, Bilbo thinks, that Thorin should be the one surprised by Bilbo's voice, when it is Bilbo who should be disbelieving. After all, it is not every day the dead come knocking on the front door.

It wears away at the strange resistance in Bilbo's chest. Loneliness makes it easy for one to forget that others might be alone, too.

“If I had known you'd go straight for the sweet stuff, I'd waited 'till you finished your eggs first”, he says. It's almost teasing, and for his part, Thorin looks utterly bewildered, obviously at a loss as to what he should do with Bilbo's wry humour. Well, Bilbo can't help him. It's not as if he really has a plan here.

“Nevermind...” Bilbo rubs his face, sitting down as well. He doesn't know how to do this. “I don't know how to do this.”

Thorin swallows carefully.

“Neither do I”, he admits. While he was on the road, things seemed if not simple then at least rather clear and fairly safely situated in the near future – Bilbo was in danger and Thorin had to get to him, warn him, ensure his safety. Now that he was actually here, he doesn't quite know how to go about doing what he came to do. He could just sit here and look at Bilbo, if it were up to him. It's entirely enough, for all that it is not, given that anything more than that seems rather daunting. This, Thorin decides, is what it must feel like to put your heart in someone's hands knowing perfectly well that they could hold it, drop it, or very well smash it against the ground at any given moment. It's not necessarily an altogether pleasant feeling, but it is true. And because neither of them seems to know what the next step should be, and because if anyone should make a wrong step and take the fall here, it should be Thorin, by his own reckoning, he takes the burden of pushing the conversation forward onto himself, even if it means just stating the obvious. “You must have questions.”

Bilbo levels him with a look, a hard thing Thorin's only seen a few times before.

“Yes, well, you could say that”, he answers, and Thorin doesn't wince at his tone simply because he expects it. For long seconds Bilbo says nothing, asks nothing, and Thorin wonders briefly if he'll have to take an oath of truthfulness. He will, if Bilbo asks him to. He's already pledged one, silently, the moment he knocked on the door. Or maybe even earlier than that. Finally, Bilbo straightens his shoulders – a battle stance if Thorin's ever seen one – and his eyes harden.

“Who knew?”

Bilbo's voice is cool, devoid of feeling. Thorin makes himself face him fully as he answers.

“My sister. Dain” he says. “And the Company.”

Thorin's words are a betrayal, ugly and rotten, and Bilbo feels them burn hot down his chest and settle in the pit of his stomach, cooling down from anger to disappointment. He swallows but doesn't look away. Thorin looks bleak and Bilbo knows there's more.

“Gandalf, too.”

This one hurts viciously, but Bilbo finds himself not as surprised as he should be. Looking back now, so many things make more sense – Gandalf's odd looks and unfinished sentences, Bofur's faltering gaze and Ori's strange anger, the fierceness of Dis' expression on the day of her coronation. All that time, Bilbo had a feeling he was missing something, a mole of intuition digging underground tunnels in the back of his mind. They all watched him grieve, knowing he was grieving for naught, at least in part. They all let him fall apart at the seams, and none thought to lend a helping hand.

The anger hits him between one breath and the next, and Bilbo is distantly relieved. Anger is simple and straight-forward. It's justified and easy, feeding of betrayed trust and stolen time.

“Anyone else?” he asks.

Thorin shakes his head. “No.”

“So, which was it then?”, Bilbo pushes on, watching Thorin flinch away from the way he spits out the question. “Was I so unimportant or so unworthy of your trust to be let in on the secret?”

It's venom instead of words, and an unfair and untruthful one, too, Bilbo knows. But he doesn't care much. None of this is fair, and certainly a lot hasn't been true. And none of it can be undone, so a bit more damage doesn't make a difference, one way or another.

“Neither”, Thorin breathes. There is nothing soft about Bilbo in that moment. For all the roundness of his contours, he is all sharp edges and serrated words. Thorin takes it all. “Neither”, he repeats, pleadingly, earnestly. How could Bilbo not know?

“What then? What good reason could you possibly have had?”, Bilbo bites out, and Thorin wants to tell him. He really does. He just can't. Not like this, not when it would sound like an excuse and a plea at the same time, and it is neither. It can't be either of those things, shouldn't be. So Bilbo mustn't know, lest his soft heart gets the better of him and he forgives.

“None. I had none”, he says instead, because he'd sworn to tell Bilbo only the truth and at least this true, to a degree. Thorin still stands by his reasons, but he knows Bilbo would not see them as good ones at all.

“None...”, Bilbo's tone is flat with disbelief. “Is that all you have to say? That you had no good reason? What was it, then? A whim? Or did you simply forget to tell me?”

“No.”

“What then, Thorin?” This time the question is more tired than anything, and it hurts Thorin in a way anger never could.

“It wasn't supposed to be like this”, he says and he knows Bilbo won't understand it. But it is what it is, and it's the truth – it was never supposed to be like this, broken and cold and miserable. It was supposed to be Bilbo, at home, in his garden, with his books and a few memories that would eventually gently fade until nothing hurt anymore.

“That's not a good-enough answer”, Bilbo says. Apparently, it's a good day for stating the obvious. “You let me think you were dead. You let me bury you. I stood at your grave, I put - ” Bilbo cuts himself off. He _is_ angry. He is angry, because even though Thorin isn't asking for forgiveness, Bilbo cannot possibly do anything else than forgive, now that Thorin's back from the dead. He is angry because his simple anger is rapidly being stolen from him. He is furious. He is deliriously happy. He is confused. “It's not a good-enough answer”, he repeats, voice tight as he tries to will the lump in his throat to desist.

“It's the only one I have”, Thorin admits, softly and not without regret. “I am sorry. For any grief that my absence has caused you.” That much is certainly true. The rest – the rest is Thorin's burden to carry, all of it. The knowledge of having made an irreparable mistake, Bilbo's anger, the unfairness of it all.

“Yes. Yes, so am I”, Bilbo replies, and they fall silent. Bilbo looks wretched, but Thorin can't stop looking at him. In the morning light he looks tired and pale, but so real that it almost hurts. After a whole year of ever-fading memories, the corporeality of him is overwhelming. Dear Mahal, Thorin's been so lonely. He didn't even know the true depth of it while on the road. Maybe that was a small blessing, all things considered. He is saving his own life, or Bilbo is. He understands now. But it's a long way yet, and there are still foul-tasting words to be said. Words which go against all Thorin's instincts, but he decides to bow to the wisdom of his elders, for once, and take Sprita's advice.

“I would take back my words and deeds at the gate...”, he begins. “You did what only a true friend would do. I am so sorry that I have led you into such peril.”

“The peril was hardly all your fault. There were several armies, if I recall correctly”, Bilbo says, wry and not as comforting as it would appear. He's stating a fact, his face unreadable. Thorin smiles a tiny smile, eyes going soft and open.

“Some of it was.”

Bilbo just watches him for the longest time, his head tilted to the side, eyes quizzical. He appears to be deciding on something, or looking for some missing part of an invisible puzzle Thorin is not privy to. Thorin lets him, bares himself as much as he can without actually being able to let Bilbo examine him from the inside out, letting him speak directly to his blood and the things dissolved there that refuse to become words. Bilbo looks and Thorin breathes, and the Sun cares for neither of them as it continues to climb. Finally, Bilbo finds whatever he is looking for and sighs, and for some reason he looks almost pained. Not disappointed, but something different. Thorin recognises it only because he's been faced with such looks many times over the years from those closest to him when he was being particularly pig-headed. Bilbo looks resigned, as if he's made peace with some special brand of helplessness.

“Why do you ask of me that which you cannot give yourself, Thorin? Because if I know anything about you, I know you do not forgive easily, least of all your own mistakes.”

Thorin hastens to interrupt. This is exactly what was _not_ supposed to happen.

“You misunderstand. I am not asking for your forgiveness. I could never...”, he swallows the rest of the sentence, because for the first time since they woke up, Bilbo looks honestly confused. Not angry, not tired. Just confused.

“Then what are you asking for?”

“Nothing”, Thorin breathes out. “I don't ask for anything. I just needed you to know that I am sorry.”

“Yes. So you've said”, Bilbo says, but it's mild, almost sad. “For what it's worth, I've forgiven that particular grievance quite some time ago. And even then, I don't think I was forgiving _you_.”

“What do you mean?” Thorin frowns.

“You were sick, Thorin.” Suddenly, Bilbo's tone is fierce, as if the world hinges on Thorin understanding what he is about to say. He is making his case, and it's a small wonder to behold. “It wasn't something you would have done if you weren't ill. I meant what I said back then – the Thorin I've met in Bag End would never have done any of those things. _You_ wouldn't. But that Thorin hadn't yet fallen under a spell of sickness that's been haunting his family for generations. And that was not your fault. The Thorin that did all those things died some time before the battle. You battled a dragon, Thorin, and you've battled it twice. You also defeated it both times. It just took you a bit longer the second time around. So if there is something to forgive, it's been forgiven.”

“How can you?” Thorin asks, and he looks destroyed, completely uncomprehending. “What I did still happened. How can you forgive?”

Bilbo's whole face falls, all the fire burning itself out, every line on his face looking for all the world like a tear track.

“Maybe the reason I can forgive you is because I know you never will”, he says. “And someone must, even if you won't. But I so wish you would, Thorin. I really do.”

“You shouldn't. I didn't ask for it because _you shouldn't_.”

“But I did. You didn't ask for it, but sometimes we get things we never asked for. Besides, there's still the whole issue of you playing dead for a year and all that. _That_ I am angry about. And still waiting for a reason.”

“I still don't have a good one.”

“Well”, Bilbo stands up. “Maybe one of these days I'll accept a bad one.”

He starts putting away the dishes and gives Thorin a few moments to pull himself together. Of all the surprises in Arda, Thorin doubts any will ever surpass Bilbo Baggins. He is almost tempted to believe him. But whatever Bilbo gives willingly, Thorin will not refuse, even he thinks it is a mistake. For a while, the kitchen is filled only with the soft sounds of their breathing and the splashing of water.

The soap suds make Bilbo's hands slippery and he focuses on holding onto the plates and bowls so not to drop them. It helps. If his hands were not full of soapy dishes, then just maybe they would find their way back to Thorin, and it's too soon for that, no matter how much his treacherous heart protests. There is broken trust between them, a whole field of broken shards that stick from the proverbial ground, separating them. A no-man's land where nothing green grows to which they've both contributed. But, in time, Bilbo thinks, maybe they'll find their way across it. They are the ones who created it, in the end. In time, they could remember their way back. After the events of the last day, distance seems like a very relative term, after all.

“What's changed now?” he asks, his back still to Thorin. “Why are you here?”

At this, Thorin sits up straighter, finally able to answer. This part, at least was always clear. ' _Because I missed you like a stolen part of myself. Because I'm not ready to be dead yet. Because I'm starting to learn.'_ But most importantly ' _because you must stay safe'_. But he can't start quite like that, so he starts from the beginning, instead.

“During out travels, you found a ring”, Thorin says, and for the second time in as many days the sound of pottery breaking rings through Bilbo Baggins' kitchen as the hobbit drops a plate.

 

* * *

The feeling came gradually, sneaking up on Dis when she wasn't paying attention, between court meetings, trade agreements, rebuilding Erebor, and constant worry over Thorin. Maybe it's better that way. She can't remember when it happened, really, but one day she woke up to find the sharp ache that made a home in her insides had faded slightly into a dull feeling she couldn't quite place for a while. It wasn't until days later, when she was passing Erebor's main marketplace that she recognised it. The market was always a lively place, more often than not teeming with dwarflings who darted around their parents' legs and the stalls piled high with produce. The sight of them usually caused a painful clench to form in Dis' stomach, but this time it did not. This time, she found herself smiling at them, albeit sadly, and then she knew. All things change, and so must grief. And because there is no getting over the death of one's children, the heart learnt to adapt. Dwarves are craftsmen by nature, so it's not really so odd that their hearts found a way to forge something prettier out of the crude ore of sorrow. With time and patience, it forged nostalgia.

Nostalgia is like finding a dusty cloak right where you've left it, in a spot to which you now returned, only to find it slightly altered, the fabric faded from the sun and rain and winds of the years. You put it on and it still feels mostly the same, save the new softness, the crispness of it gone, the colours less vivid. That's what it's like – the joy is muted into content or longing, the pain dulled into a pulse of sorrow. Maybe that's alright. Maybe this is the way the mind saves itself from destruction, from burning up in an endless run of intensity. Maybe nostalgia is the step between being caught up and forgetting, lukewarm and milky, like bland tea.

And Dis has always been anything but bland, but she supposes she has no choice. Even rock yields, when it must. Truth be told, it's not that bad. At least this way, she can see the living when she walks around her Kingdom, instead of peering at them through the sea of ghosts. They deserve better, and so does she.

She wonders if it shows – if her face is now less harrowed, if the crude lines drawn by sorrow have mellowed out into something more pliable, or if she still looks stony and sharp-edged. She wonders if she looks like the young face staring back at her, wild with grief still roaming untamed. Well, she says young, but who ever knows with Elves.

“My guards tell me you've been caught roaming the lower halls”, Dis says. She's standing in the small holding cell just off the main guards' station, with a pair of forest-green eyes trained on her. “It is not every day someone manages to enter the mountain unseen and uninvited. Under different circumstances I would be duly impressed. As it is, I must ask you how you managed to slip in, and why.”

Only silence meets her, and Dis can't really find it in herself to be surprised. After all, she would do exactly the same, were she the one being held. She uses the quiet to study the intruder. The elf is dressed in plain green and brown clothes made out of deer skin – forest colours, perfect for blending in – and her skin is smudged with dirt in several places, like a wild child's. With a shock of red hair cut unevenly at shoulder-length, she looks positively feral. It's not the usual elven style, as far as Dis remembers. It is, however, a usual _Dwarven_ custom. She wonders if her guest knows this.

So, this is the elf her Kili had so irrevocably fallen for. Tauriel of Mirkwood stares back at the Queen of Erebor with a fierce defiance reserved for the perpetually wrecked. Dis is pretty sure she likes her. She likes the way her green eyes burn like leaves of her homeland caught in sunlight, respects the warrior that lurks there, even if she is hidden beneath layers of rubble of the soul. Underneath the weight of it all, Dis sees a seasoned soldier, a captain, and knows on instinct that Tauriel would never have let herself get caught if things were not what they are. One warrior to another, she owes her that respect.

“I do not usually conduct my conversations in holding cells, Captain, so might I suggest you join me in my rooms for some tea? You must be hungry.”

This at least earns her a questioning look. Well, Dis may be a Durin, but that does not meant she is her brother in every way. She might not be overly fond of the Elven kind, but this particular Elf and she share a history, even if they've never met before. And she will not treat her like a prisoner of war.

Dis opens the door and inclines her head. After a moment or two, Tauriel stands up from the low bench and walks over. She doesn't cower like a wounded animal, nor does she affect vague disinterest the way Dis would expect of her kind. In fact, so little about her is anything beyond the basic – she is neither rude nor reverent, shows neither scorn nor deference. Tauriel just _is,_ blank and neutral like a glass of tepid water, and Dis would bet her beard this is not the same Elf who saved her son in Laketown. Even from Thorin's (highly biased) storytelling, Dis managed to paint a picture of the woman her companion used to be. She would doubt her own judgement, were it not for Tauriel's burning eyes. It takes a lot of soul to be able to burn so long. And such souls are never cold.

They turn the third corner on their way to the Royal wing when the Elf finally speaks, looking straight ahead.

“You bury your dead, deep in the stone of this place. I just wanted to see it, just once.”

“That's completely understandable. But you could have just asked at the Gate.”

This time Tauriel scoffs. “Is that so, Your Majesty?”

“Yes”, Dis answers firmly. “As long as I am here, it is.”

Her companion finally looks at her, and Dis looks back, calm but with stone in her eyes. It's very much a clash, but a benevolent one – youth against age, storm against its aftermath, one fiery heart against another, both understanding of each other, but still different.

When it comes to age, one never knows with Elves, but even if Tauriel lived more years, Dis is still the older one – that much is obvious. Tauriel's grief is of the young, an angry, wild sort of feeling that burns. She is the lover scorned by fate, so hers is the fury. All hearts break, but each breaks in a specific way. The cracks form patterns for other hearts to read.

“I will not beg”, Tauriel says, and Dis can't help but smile. Oh, yes. She definitely likes her.

“I'm glad to hear that”, she replies. “I'd be rather disappointed if you did. Then I suggest we adjust our destination. This way.”

And because Dis is a dwarrowdam, and one of Durin's folk, she is a craftswoman at heart – a heart mends, crafts bearable out of the wrenching, which might just be the only reason why she walks all the way down to the tombs of her sons without a single faltering step.

The stone of the Mountain flows around them, cold and smooth as they descend. Dis wonders if the Elf can see why it is beautiful. It doesn't really matter if she does, but it's an interesting thought.

“Does your King know you're here?”, she asks. Beside her, Tauriel holds herself somewhat stiffly, like her ribs are bruised, and Dis makes a mental note to have Oin check her over. She also walks like someone used to carrying weapons – none of which she currently has on her – and the way she flinches to the smallest noise speaks of long, lonely times spent in the wilderness, always alert.

“No”, Tauriel replies. “I left.”

“Why?”

“Differences in opinions. And one does not disagree with a king without suffering consequences.”

Dis frowns, dismayed. “He banished you?” She never thought Thranduil to be a tyrant. Self-important, yes, and often spiteful, but not a despot. There will always be dissidents, but one must use them as a way to take the pulse of the people if one wishes to rule well, in Dis' opinion. But Tauriel shakes her head, a sharp, short motion of someone who's made hard choices and is learning to live with them, but not of someone who regrets them.

“No. But no doubt he was grateful that I spared him the trouble. When he wanted to retreat from the battle, I defied him, in front of our troops. The battle was still raging on, people were still dying. Only not the people he cared about. He said he'd lost too many elven lives already and would not risk any more. But the lives I cared about were not just those of elves. So I stood in his path and aimed an arrow at his head.”

“For Kili?”, Dis asks.

“For myself, too”, Tauriel replies. “Because I was a soldier bred and raised on a feud of a past generation. Because I wanted to be more than that. Whatever grievances twisted Thranduil into who he is today might be part of my people's history, but they do not have to be my heritage. And because if I had died that day, I would have done it with a heart that stayed true to itself.”

Dis stops in front of the Crypt door, faltering with one hand on the metal loops. She was ready to like this sylvan newcomer. She was even ready to be fond of her. Anyone who loved Kili could not be a foul soul. But Dis was not prepared for the depth of respect she finds herself feeling for the young Elf. And she mourns Tauriel's losses that much more deeply.

“Your King could learn a thing or two from you, Captain”, she says, leading them towards the tombs. Tauriel sets off straight for the tomb on the far side, where Kili's double made of stone lies still on top the stone lid. Dis lets her, walking slowly to give the other woman some space. She runs a gentle hand along Fili's coffin in a silent hello and makes her way to Tauriel's side.

The Elf is staring at the grave with every feeling unhidden and written on her face, running her fingers over the stone contours of what is supposed to be Kili's face. Dis almost looks away, but there is no shame in Tauriel's heartbreak. Just tragic injustice.

“Where have you been all this time?”, the Queen asks.

“I roamed around. I went walking in the starlight.” The words come with a smile, and it is obvious this is some story or memory Dis isn't privy to.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

Tauriel tears her gaze away from the coffin and pin Dis with a look.

“I never said I was looking for something.”

Dis smiles. Oh yes, she is definitely feeling old. If only she felt half as wise half the time.

“Some things do not need not need to be said to be understood.”

Tauriel's gaze falters again, returning to the stone figure.

“No”, she murmurs “I did not find it.”

“What were you looking for?”

This time, when Tauriel looks up to Dis she looks so unbearably young, not in years, but in terms of spirit. Like a young tree, with only a few growth rings marring its trunk.

“A way to make it stop”, she says, and Dis doesn't know if she means pain of loss or love itself, but she knows that, whichever it was, Tauriel's quest has always been doomed from the start.

They make their way back to surface level, heading for the Gates. Once the guards have let them through, the Queen Under the Mountain and the former Captain of the Guard of Mirkwood stand shoulder-by-shoulder on the gravelly path outside Erebor's main entrance. They're an odd pair, different in so many ways more than they are similar, but the silence between them is amicable, if sombre. On the far side, the trees of Mirkwood burn orange and red with autumn.

“How did you manage to get in?”, Dis asks. She is genuinely curious. Besides, she needs to tell her guards to keep out a better eye.

“The aviary”

Dis's eyebrows shoot up in impressed surprise.

“You climbed all the way up to the aviary?”

“I've climbed worse hills”, Tauriel says, gaze distant and wondering over to the hill next to Dale, where the waterfall is flowing, no ice yet turning the water into a statue frozen out of time. Worse hills, indeed.

Dis has seen trees that stand the way Tauriel does – with branches torn off by strong winds and bark half-scratched off by wild animals, but still standing in the middle of barren planes. She always admired them for their tenacity. It is not easy to be a tree without a forest. There is strength in numbers. Comfort, too. Who was she to fall them? And, oh well, she's already made a voice for herself as either an enlightened reformist or a complete loon. She's pretty sure the majority will sway towards the latter after this.

“You are free to go”, she says. “But you are also welcome to stay.”

 

* * *

His finger feels horribly bare. His waistcoat is still in his room, with the Ring still in one of the pockets. And at that moment, Bilbo forgets – forgets that it's Thorin sitting at his table, forgets that he might just be in a middle of a particularly messy miracle, forgets the plate in his hands. There is nothing but the panic in his chest, the mind-numbing, heart-wrenching doubt that the Ring might not be there anymore, that this is all just a ruse. That he will lose it. He wants to move, run to it, but he is frozen in the kitchen, with Thorin in his way. Thorin, who knows about the Ring.

“What of it?” he all but growls, and never has a hobbit sounded more like a warg in all their history.

Thorin frowns.

“Do you still have it?”

“What's it to you?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, born out of some twisted instinct in the pit of his stomach, and Bilbo curses himself as Thorin's frown deepens.

“Bilbo...”

“Yes. Yes, I still have it.” Oh, and if that doesn't feel wrong. He shouldn't have said that. But why? Bilbo tries to listen to the voice in his head, _his_ voice, but he can't hear it over Thorin's actual voice and other whispers. “Why?”

Thorin shifts in his seat, picking his words. “While I was on the road, I...encountered a band of orcs.” Well, that's one way of saying it. “They spoke of a raid of the Shire.”

Bilbo cocks an eyebrow. “They just told you that? How very convenient of them.”

“Not precisely, no. But they said something in that vein.”

“And the ring?”

“They spoke of a ring in the Shire which they were to retrieve. At any cost. They appeared rather gleeful about that part”, Thorin adds pointedly.

“Could be any ring”, Bilbo counters. And they say dwarves are stubborn. “There are many rings in the Shire.”

“Many invisibility rings?” Thorin's eyes are mild, but they both know the truth. It's not any other ring.

“What do they want with it?” Bilbo concedes. The urge to run and get the said ring keeps mounting, but Thorin's still-too-curious, worried gaze keeps him rooted. Best not give any more reasons for unwanted questions later.

“I don't know. But they're coming and that means you are not safe here.”

“Since when are you versed in Black Speech?”

“I am not.”

“How can you be sure, then?”

“I had help.”

Bilbo ignores this for the time being. There's a story behind all this, a story Thorin is not telling. He must remember to ask about it, later.

“So you came to protect me? Not a very thought-through plan, if I may note.”

Bilbo doesn't know where this bitterness is coming from – or he does, but he does not wish it. It's cruel, mocking and vile, and even though he is hurt, Bilbo does not want to be like that. But it pours out of him, uncontrolled, prompted by some spiteful urge that doesn't sit quite right in his chest, words that are his but don't quite feel like they are, rotten sentiment dripping off them like damp. This is not him. And yet, it is. Maybe this is what he has become. Maybe this is who he is now. The fact that Thorin takes it all in stride makes it worse. Bilbo wants to clamp his mouth shut, but he can't really carry a conversation that way. He wants a break. A respite. The numbing cold to clear his head. He wants his Ring.

“No”, Thorin replies. “I came with a suggestion.”

“I'm listening.

“Come to Erebor with me. You'll be safe there.”

Well then. This is getting ridiculous.

“As far as I am aware, the whole mountain thinks you dead”, Bilbo snaps. “Well...not the whole mountain, after all, it would seem. But even so, you would have me in Erebor, and then what, Thorin? Wait for the orcs to come knocking at the gate? What about everyone else in the Mountain? Are orcs not a danger to them, too?”

“A much lesser danger to a mountain full of armed dwarves than to the gentlefolk of the Shire”, Thorin shoots back. “At least we stand a chance against them. We have defeated them once already.”

“Yes, but at what cost? Forgive me if my memory of the funerals that followed is not quick to fade.”

Bilbo speaks the words before he can catch himself, but the moment they're off his tongue he closes his eyes in regret. When he turns to face Thorin, the dwarf's face is stricken and the pain in his eyes twists Bilbo's heart. His loneliness has made him harsh, his grief bitter, and he forgets that all those he has lost, Thorin has lost as well, and ten times over, too.

“I'm sorry. That was uncalled for.”

Thorin just nods, and Bilbo knows that the lack of words is not out of resentment. It strikes him that just like him, Thorin probably hasn't had anyone to talk to about Fili and Kili over this past year. He doesn't have to guess to know the pain of grief kept bottled-up. The Ring can wait, he decides, and so can the orcs, and Erebor, and Thorin's stupid loyalty, and the whole world. This pain, at least, he can try and ease. Eru knows they could both use a little relief.

“I miss them, you know”, Bilbo says, trying to keep his tone as light as he can, given the topic and the circumstances. Thorin looks up at him then, and his eyes are so lost and so, so blue, and it's just _not fair_. It's not fair, because it makes Bilbo ache and want to reach out for him, wipe away the loss that is so evident in the lines of Thorin's face, and Bilbo doesn't want to want that. He wants to be angry.

“The world seems too quiet without them”, Thorin admits, quietly, as if in confession.

“I know.” Try as he might, Bilbo can't make his voice anything but gentle in the face of Thorin's sorrow. “I hope the stories remember their voices. Sometimes I think they could have joked their way out of a battle, if they wanted to.”

Thorin's eyes are haunted, even if he tries not to show it.

“I never wanted them to become stories. Not ones I would listen to. I wanted them to live. They were supposed to be the ones telling the stories, long after I'd gone.”

“Those would have been some tall tales”, Bilbo smiles, bittersweet. “They would have made everyone think you were a demi-god within a month's time, the way they adored you.”

“Kili, perhaps”, Thorin says. “But not Fili.”

“Don't be ridiculous”, Bilbo scoffs. Just like Thorin to be self-depreciating even when presented with blatant admiration. But Thorin shakes his head.

“I think he saw me much more clearly, near the end. I like to think that his disappointment wasn't too great, but he saw what his brother did not. That I was a stubborn fool much more often than I was the hero they deserved.”

“Fili loved you, Thorin”, Bilbo insists. He doesn't have the time to work out why, but he knows that it's very important Thorin believes this.

“I know he did”, Thorin smiles that not-really-a-smile. “But he also had the strength to see me for what I was. Kili was always all heart and blood-red fierceness, but he couldn't see it. Too much of a romantic, my Kili. Always rushing headlong into things. But Fili, for all his undying loyalty, never shied away from calling things by their true names. I like to think that, in those last days, he'd been ready to do his duty and defend Erebor and the Company no matter the cost. Even if it meant defending them against me.”

“Thorin, no...” Bilbo half-whispers, shakes his head with eyes wide. “He would have done anything for you.”

“I know”, Thorin says, equally quietly. “I know, because he had, in the end. Too much. More than he should have, by any measure. But you forget that he was not just my sister's son, but also my heir. I bred him for that role. Fili understood duty in a way Kili never had to.”

“He had a good teacher”, Bilbo says, but it's not much in terms of comfort. Despite everything, some things don't change, and Bilbo can see the words sitting heavy in Thorin's heart. And because some things never change, Bilbo can't just sit there and watch Thorin's pain.

“If I could drag only one of them back, I would”, he says. “Eru, they would have hated being apart like that, but I would.” It's horrible and it's selfish and it's in both their hearts, but Bilbo says it because he knows Thorin can't. And that's what love is, isn't it? Taking away the pain where one can. Saying the difficult things. Everything else seems very far away, just then, because the truth of it is, it is love, and Bilbo is too tired to call it other names. He is so tired, and it feels like he's tumbled through at least a dozen feelings within half an hour. And it's not even noon yet.

Thorin, on his part, looks completely at loss, opening his mouth to say something but closing it without uttering a word. That's alright. Bilbo understands. They've spoken so many words. Some others will have to wait their turn. In the end Thorin just nods again, swallows, and lets himself look away.

The knock on the window startles them both. The pebble-on-glass noise comes three times in a quick succession before Bilbo makes it to the window. On the other side, a shiny, clever black eye regards him with that particular brand of impatience only birds are capable of.

“It's a raven”, Bilbo states, rather unnecessarily.

“Not just any raven”, Thorin adds, also coming to stand by the window. “A raven of Erebor.”

They let the bird in, and it offers Thorin its leg, burdened with a folded piece of parchment. Thorin goes about opening the letter while Bilbo sets out a plate of leftovers and a bowl of water for the bird.

“Who's it from?”, Bilbo asks.

“My sister. She writes of you, too. Shall I read it aloud?”

“Please.”

So Thorin does, and Bilbo must do his best to focus on the words instead of just taking in the sound of his voice.

' _Dear nadad,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. Or as well as can be expected._

_If you are reading this, then our messengers have been right and you are indeed on a mission to get Master Baggins to safety. If they are right about that, then they are also right about more sinister things. I fear, brother, that we are not to have peace for long. The same evil that has prompted you to break your own vow is bound to touch upon our doorstep, given time._

_That said, let me say this, too: this evil will come, as sure as winter, I am certain of it, and it will do so regardless of your presence, or the presence of your Burglar. And when it does, Erebor will be ready. Which is to say, if the thought has ever crossed you mind that our kingdom would prefer if you stayed away, banish it the moment you read this. Give the same instruction to Master Baggins, given that he doesn't slam the door right into your face. If he lets you in, ask him about the book. He will know which one I speak of. I hope it will be a strong enough argument to convince you that none of these words were hastily chosen. You will always have a place under the Mountain._

_Come home, Thorin, and bring Bilbo with you, if he will come. You are both sorely missed. Let your people do for you what you've done for them all these decades. I could send a party to greet you, but seeing as you will probably wish to keep low and out of sight, I do not think that would be wise. The party that was sent after you isn't expecting any resistance at all, so hopefully they'll be thrown for a loop when they find the Shire empty of their prey._

_Stay safe, nadad, and tell Bilbo that I am sorry. We all are. The other letter is for him, from the Wizard. Apparently, he's got instructions to give._

_And please do not shoot the messengers. They've been very kind to help, and you don't even like boar meat that much._

_Your loving sister,_

_Dis_

_P.S. If I recall correctly, we've been told tea (at Bag End) is at four and that there's no need to knock. Still, I'd think it wiser if you did.'_

“Well, that explains it”, Thorin mutters.

“What?”

“Why I kept on being followed by stray animals. She's unbelievable. And she meddles.”

Bilbo snorts.

“You don't sound surprised”, Thorin says, looking up from the letter.

“Of course I'm not surprised. I've met your sister, Thorin. And I've travelled with the rest of them for months. I fancy thinking I do know them a bit. And if you ever really thought they'd let you wander off alone, then I'm afraid I've overestimated your wits by a lot.”

“Sometimes I fear you've done it regardless.”

“Oh, stop pulling your own feet hair out”, Bilbo grumbles. “It's unbecoming.”

“I don't have any feet hair.”

“It's an expression. Stop wallowing.”

Bilbo reaches for Dis' letter, rubbing at his temples. He skims over it again, sighing deeply.

“I know she means well, but I still don't think it's a good idea.”

“Dis wouldn't have written that if she didn't mean every word”, Thorin says. “Will you come?”

Bilbo rubs his eyes.

“I need time to think about it.”

“Of course.”

“How long can be spared?”

Thorin thinks it through before answering. “A week. One and a half, at most. It would be wise to get a headstart while we can.”

It is Bilbo's turn to nod. He looks out the window, where the trees are slowly going bare, and the earth is falling to sleep with each passing day.

“It's coming on winter”, he says. “The road will be hellish.”

“It only plays to our advantage”, Thorin replies. “They won't expect us to leave now.”

“Right.”

Bilbo fiddles with Gandalf's letter, folded and still unread.

“I will leave you to read it in peace”, Thorin says, nodding towards the paper, and stands up. “If that's alright with you, I'm in a dire need of a bath...”, he begins, but then remembers something. His shoulders grow rigid, his voice awfully hesitant.

“Unless of course I've overstayed my welcome. I can easily find lodgings somewhere while you think over my suggestion”, he says. In all the thrill of seeing Bilbo again, he'd forgotten himself.

Bilbo does his best not to roll his eyes. He only half-succeeds.

“Only if you wish to mortally offend me as a host”, he says, standing up as well. “Besides, aren't you supposed to keep out of sight?”

“I doubt there's anyone in the Shire who still remembers my name or why it is important.”

“There is one person”, Bilbo retorts, looking Thorin straight in the eye, and Thorin almost comes undone – with relief, or love, or some heady mixture of the two.

“That's a great relief to hear”, he rasps out, feeling parchment-thin, frayed, worn out by his travels, and the morning's events.

“Is it, now?”

“Yes.”

Both the question and the answer come out as whispers, because it's that kind of moment when one doesn't speak loudly. A glass-moment, a soap bubble-moment. And they're in it together, against all odds.

“Thorin...”, Bilbo says, and it's almost like the night before. They're almost close enough, almost touching. The light is almost the right shade of warm. It's almost that simple. But it's not the night before, and the sun is much less forgiving than the moon. It's not all that simple, if it had ever even been...but maybe it could be. Maybe, in time, it could be simple again. Or for the first time.

It's an almost, so Bilbo doesn't kiss Thorin. Maybe he can't, with all the words just said sitting in a pile between them. Maybe he just doesn't know how, at the moment. But this time the almost is a future instead of the past, potential instead of a chance long gone, and that's a world of difference right there.

“For what it's worth, I'm glad to have shared in your perils”, he says. “Each and every one of them.” ' _I missed you'_ , he wants to add, but the words don't feel right, too weak, too bland for the feeling. Bilbo didn't miss Thorin, he mourned him, and then he longed, and clawed his way through every day learning how to be in a world without him. _'_ Missed' never even came close. And by some stretch of impossible luck, now it never will never get a chance to. Because Thorin is alive. Because Bilbo is too, and what a sorry pair they make, with all their invisible bruises and deep-running cuts and souls much more tainted than not so long ago. But even so, they're something that they weren't just a day ago, and it's more life than Bilbo believed possible.

He leaves a dumbstruck Thorin in the hallway, trusting him to find the bath on his own (even _he_ can't get lost in a straight corridor), and strides out into the sun-drenched garden to read Gandalf's letter. Just as he opens the door, something prompts Bilbo to look over his shoulder, just once. Thorin is still looking at him, and the sight of him alive, battered but not broken, standing in Bilbo's home as if he's always meant to come is just so _right_.

The feeling comes in a rush, bright, incandescent, nearly forgotten. To Bilbo it feels like a sudden March shower and the clear skies afterwards. It's new and fragile still, this gentle and reluctant spring of theirs, budding in the midst of autumn, but Bilbo knows how budding goes – towards bloom and fruit and stubborn life prevailing. It's like a breath of life.

Hope.

 


	7. Small miracles, smiles of pawns, and penny-suns burning gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S FINALLY HERE. I'm sorry for the long wait, I know it's been over a month. *hands out apology cookies and some 12k words in hope of appeasing*

  
  


* * *

' _Too soon'_ , Dis thinks, looking out over the crowd gathered in the great assembly hall of Erebor. ' _They just came. They just returned home. It's too soon.'_

She's right. The last of the dwarves from Ered Luin arrived only a week ago and many were still setting up their homes again. For the older dwarves, it was a welcome after so many decades of exile, while for the youth, Erebor was not a home to return to, but a new place to grow accustomed to.

Their travel-worn faces were softened by the joy of reuniting with friends and family that arrived earlier, and it was them, more than anything in the mountain, that reminded Dis that this used to be home once. And quite possibly, a home they might have to defend yet again.

It's too soon, and if she had the divine power to give them time, Dis would give her braids to do so. Alas, as it is, she's just a second-born of a royal line, a Queen-never-meant-to-be, and frankly, if there was ever anything divine in the Durin blood, it got soaked back into the stone generations ago. Dis' blood is very ordinary, very mortal, and very heavy as she watches the gates shut and the last dwarves take their places.

"No word from Thorin yet?", Balin asks, coming to stand beside her.

"Nothing yet. But I guess it was foolish to hope for such a swift reply. Even if they decided right away, and the raven flew day and night, chances would still be slim for it to arrive in time."

"Then we shall proceed according to the plan, yes?"

"Yes."

Not a word about Thorin. That's the plan they've come up with. The commotion that a revelation of such magnitude would cause is not something Dis, or Erebor for that matter, are even nearly ready to deal with. And there are the political implications to think about, of course. A challenge to the throne is the last thing they can afford now that everything is still so shaky and tender in the Lonely Mountain. The speech has been re-written over and over, with Balin and Ori bickering over the wording while Dis mulled over the possible outcomes.

"Vague enough to leave us room for a tactical retreat should we need one, but with enough flesh on its bones to be sure everyone understands the seriousness of the situation", she recites. It's lesson number one of royal addresses to the public, one Dis has been taught at an early age, both by tutors and by her grandfather's and grandmother's examples, and one Thorin's never been quite lucky enough to grasp fully. It's a skill that calls for patience and well... an at least decent hold on one's temper. Thorin was always more a warrior than he was a diplomat, fierce and moving in his own way, but unsuited for the more subtle aspects of the royal duties.

"Where's Gandalf?", Dis turns to Balin.

"Last I saw him, he was in the aviary. Should I have someone fetch him?"

"No... no, that's alright. The Wizard would just raise suspicion. One outsider per time, I think", she says, eyes falling on a single figure that towers over the crowd. Tauriel's red hair does nothing to tamp down the distinct abruptness of her presence. Taking Dis' offer, the elf stayed. She offered her services as an archer right away, but Dis decided to give her people a few days to get settled before she sprang the newest addition to their army ranks onto them.

"We should begin", Balin says. He puts a warm, dry hand on Dis' shoulder. "Courage, kandûna."

The murmur dies down as Dis nears the edge of the royal lodge and poises her hands in front of her. It's strange being up here. She's not used to looking down at her people, when for ages, she was always standing amongst them, looking them in the face. The top of the mountain is a lonely place.

“I have asked you all here today for a reason I wish was less dire", she begins. "We have weathered the cold and we've felt fire, and now, by all rules of justice, we should all be granted a reprieve, some time to rebuild our home and enjoy peace."

 _Oh, all the things that should have been..._ Dis takes a deep breath and steels herself. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, but even heavier is the heart beneath that head, that carries the souls and lives of its people, that loves and cares and breaks time after time, because it must. Because that's its birthright and its duty. So, the Queen of Erebor goes on.

"But these are not just times. This day and age we live in knows nothing of earned peace. And even though I am certain a fairer day must dawn on our people, before it does a time may come when we will have to fight against an enemy stronger in numbers and brutality once more. And it may come sooner than any one of us wishes."

The crowd below stirs, but no one breaks the silence. All eyes are staring up, all faces hard but determined, waiting.

"The memory of Dwarves is long and sturdy, so I am sure everyone here remembers a person we all owe our gratitude and our loyalty to. Some of you here haven't had the pleasure of meeting Bilbo Baggins, but I have no doubt everyone here knows the debt that he has left us in. We owe him more than can be repaid in gold and gems. Which is why I am certain everyone here will agree that the gates of Erebor are forever open to Bilbo Baggins. Even if that means trouble might follow his trail.

I wish I could tell you more", Dis says and hears Balin sigh behind her. He'd urged her not to elaborate, urged her to leave it at floccules about unity and courage, and with decent reasoning, too. ' _Don't stir the dragon's lair'_ , he said, ' _if you do not mention it, chances are fewer will ask questions'_. But Dis was a queen, not a wooden wind-up toy that spoke prepared words.

"I wish I could tell you more, but I cannot. I hope of news that would put me at liberty to share more, but for now, all I can do is ask for your trust, and your axes and swords, if Erebor comes to need them. Do you stand with me?"

A roar rises up, shivers and booms, and Dis feels it like a wave, a punch to the chest. She is the one calling them to arms, by divine right, but it is moments such as this that remind her of her place, her true role and duty. She rules, but she also serves. First on the frontlines and last back behind the safety of the battlements. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, and heavy is the heart beneath it, but looking over the sea of faces - familiar faces, each a story and a future, if Dis has her say about it - Dis' heart is heavy only because it's full to the brim. Full of pride and fear, blended in measure, and of hope, stubborn hope that they might just make it through anything that comes their way unscathed.

 

* * *

Gandalf's letter is thin in Bilbo's hands, the paper smudged where the hobbit grips it with sweaty, breakfast-sticky fingers. He left Thorin, looking every inch the weary traveller in his rumpled clothes, in the house to get washed and changed. It was a convenient excuse, of course, to get some air. Literally _and_ figuratively.

Now, seated on the small bench in front of Bag End, Bilbo eyes the letter. He learned in this very place that with Gandalf's news came thrill and trouble both, hand-in-hand. With a chuckle, Bilbo realises he still hasn't decided if he should thank Gandalf for what has become of his life or ban him from the Shire for it. Ah, well, that's a decision that will have to wait some while more, then...

There's no seal on the letter, so Bilbo unfolds it easily. The letters blur and dance in front of his tired eyes, and he rubs at them trying to clear them of the invisible sand left there by a sleepless night.

_My dear Bilbo,_

_It would seem your adventure is not quite over yet. You must forgive my secrecy during our journey back from Erebor - some secrets were not mine to tell. I write to you with an advice and a plea._

_Presuming Thorin shed light on recent events, I implore you not to take his words lightly. Erebor is recovering, and they would welcome you with open hands. However, I will not waste words on convincing you. I am quite certain Thorin will do a decent enough job of that, and I, for one, know the stubbornness of hobbits. And how well-matched it is to that of dwarves._

_If you do, however, decide to come, there is one thing I ask you to do. It concerns the ring you found, the ring we talked about. If the upcoming days find you on the road to the East, the Ring must stay in the Shire._

Bilbo blinks, reads the last line again. And again, over and over. The only thought in his head is ' _no_ ' _._ His insides twist with refusal. There's cold sweat on the small of his back, cold sweat on his palms, smudging the ink. _'No'_ , the voice whispers, screeches into his ear from within, clutches at his heart like frost. Breath coming quick and shallow, he forces himself to read on.

_I cannot tell you why I ask this of you, not in a letter. It is much too dangerous, lest it gets intercepted. So, I must ask you to trust me. That is my plea. Please trust me, and leave the Ring behind. There are forces much greater than just a pack of orcs stirring beyond the mountains._

_Think about it, Bilbo. And remember to listen to the right voices._

_Good luck,_

_Gandalf_

The autumn sun's warmth in an illusion. Bilbo doesn't feel its gentle fingers on his skin, doesn't see the soft spots of light and shadow playing on the ground beneath the near-by trees. Round and round the words spin in his head, round and round the dawning realisation that he must choose: Thorin or the Ring. ' _Maybe Thorin would stay',_ Bilbo muses. Yes, stay in the Shire. ' _And then what?'_ , another voice asks, sounding much more like Bilbo's own, ' _so, he stays, and the orcs come, and then what?'_. Bilbo shakes his head, like he's trying to shoo away flies.

' _Maybe he'll ward them off'_ , he answers his mind. ' _Or maybe he'll get killed',_ the Bilbo-voice replies.

' _So? He did that once already, and you survived'._ The thought comes unbidden, harsh, acrid, a hiss of something that is not Bilbo at all. There's too much light in his eyes. He cannot see the road beyond the fence. The light is golden, so very golden.

"Bilbo?"

Bilbo flinches and turns around. The letter slips out of his slack fingers. The light eases, a soothing shadow falling over Bilbo as he faces the house.

Thorin is standing in the doorway, hair hanging loose in wet strands over his shoulders. He's wearing a simple dark blue tunic and breeches, dressed as simply as a peasant, with his bare feet against Bilbo's tile and a pile of dirty garments in his arms.

"Is everything alright?", he asks. Bilbo can see the concerned frown on Thorin's face, and he knows his own is probably pale and sweaty, giving too much away.

"Yes", he croaks. "Everything is perfectly fine."

Lies. They seem to flock to them like birds.

"Did you need something?" Bilbo leans down to pluck the letter from where it fluttered away. It's so hard, looking at Thorin when he is like this - soft, as natural a part of Bilbo's world as the wooden stools, and the ceramic pots in the pantry, and the forget-me-nots that grow by the edge of his garden. It's too much like a promise of another life. It's too tempting. ' _No'_ , the whisper comes again, and the flicker of morning sunlight gleams ring-gold where it hits the buttons on Bilbo's shirt.

"I was wondering if there was anywhere where I could wash my clothes", Thorin says, eyeing Bilbo wearily.

"Down by the Water", Bilbo replies. "But leave them, I'll take them. I have some business in town anyway."

He doesn't, of course, but it's as good an excuse as any. He needs... space. Some time to breathe. Think. And he can't do that here, not with Thorin constantly in the periphery, waiting on the margins.

Bilbo rises from the bench, tucking Gandalf's letter away into the waist of his trousers. Crossing to where Thorin is standing, he carefully avoids looking him in the eye, knowing what he'll find there - concern, questions but no answers, and all the other things he cannot deal with right now.

"You should get some proper sleep", he says. "In a bed, this time."

"That's alright. Is there anything that needs helping with?"

Bilbo shakes his head.

"Get some sleep, Thorin", he insists, pushing past Thorin to get his waistcoat. He rushes back to the door, and taking the clothes from Thorin's arms, turns around and pads down the garden path, leaving a confused and worried Thorin in his wake. Bilbo half-expects to hear his name being called out, but apparently their almost-year apart left Thorin more changed than Bilbo originally guessed. Before, Thorin would have pestered at best and at worst demanded to know what is off.

But as it is, he lets Bilbo go with only an anguished face and a lingering look. Thorin doesn't call out, so Bilbo turns onto the road and makes his way down to the Water.

 

* * *

“That went well”, Dwalin grunts as he follows Dis into the room which has, somewhere along the way, become their unofficial meeting chamber.

"I never doubted the loyalty of one single dwarf in this mountain", she replies.

"Nor have I. But still...it is good to have it over with."

"And that was the _easy_ part", Dis mumbles.

"There seem to be many parts."

The remark is neither biting nor said jokingly, and something about it prompts Dis to face Dwalin fully. He is standing by the door, arms crossed, looking at her with an unreadable face and a glint in his eyes.

"Watch out, Dwalin. You sound more and more like your brother with each passing day", Dis teases.

"Mahal forbid", her friend scoffs. "But I've got eyes. And ears. You've been planning this e'er since the coronation. That song of yours was no coincidence or pretty way to rock the anvil a bit. Even Bilbo's book. You've been leaving open spots left and right. As I said - planning", Dwalin finishes, cocking an eyebrow, as if to help prove his point.

"Not planning", Dis replies. There's little point in playing naive. "I might be queen, but Mahal knows not even that is enough for me to be able to make my brother do what I think he should. So I couldn't really plan, you see."

"What'd ya call this then? Because I can see you looking at these walls as if you're trying to see them in a month or two, guessing what they'll look like, whom they'll be shielding. What's that, if not planning?"

"Hoping", Dis says, softly, and watches Dwalin's eyes soften in return.

"Ay...ay, hoping's good." He suffles his feet - a gesture so endearingly silly for such a big dwarf that Dis is tempted to laugh and tease, the way they used to when they were young - and clears his throat. "Speaking of hoping...Thira's outside. She wants an audience. Says you've been...unreachable ever since the caravan arrived.”

“How formal of her”, Dis mutters, leaning over the newest set of letters that Balin's had delivered during the speech. They're low on grain again, and Dale hasn't got much more to spare, or so the top-most letter informs her.

“Dis...”, she hears Dwalin sigh.

“Dwalin.”

“She _is_ your Captain of the Guard.”

“I am aware. She has her orders, and she knows that I trust her judgement when it comes to establishing the guard. I've given out orders for supplies...”

“You know, I was convinced Thorin's left the mountain”, Dwalin interrupts. Dis' eyes snap up to him, brow furrowing into a frown.

“What are you on about? Of course he's left the mountain. Mahal permit, he's probably in the Shire right about now. Replying to my letter, if he has any sense at all.”

“Is he? Because just then I could have sworn I was talking to your brother there, with all the pig-headedness of a batter boar."

"There were more pressing matters..."

"And now there are none. Should I send her in?"

Dis glares but Dwalin doesn't relent. She honestly doesn't feel up to doing... _this_ right now, but then again, she never feels up to it. _This_ calls for a different kind of bravery. And just for once, Dis wishes she had the luxury of cowardice.

"Very well", she sighs, because she does not have it. If only fear knew that maybe it would ease up on her, but since it does not, it bears down on the Queen of Erebor without a thought for her weary soul - a tired sort of fright, familiar almost like a face of an old friend, only much less comforting. "Send her in."

' _Oh_ , _this is going to be a long day',_ Dis puts her head in her hands. And it's not even noon yet.

 

* * *

The water is smooth like oil, its unruffled surface reflecting the blue sky back to it, only a shade darker. It's early still, and no one's around yet. The sun warms the bigger rocks on the Water's shore more slowly these days, so folks come around later in the day, when they have somewhere to dry their clothes as they wash them.

Sitting on the shore, Bilbo stares out with unseeing eyes. The Ring is heavy and cold in his palm, as gleaming as ever. The urge to slip it on is like an all-consuming itch or thirst. Birds chirp mercilessly, filling the air with their incessant chatter. It's welcome, actually, helpful when it should be bothersome. Bilbo listens, trying to focus outwards rather than inwards.

The state of things, as he sees it, is this: Thorin is alive, and Bilbo is left with a miracle on his hands, one he gave up quite a while ago. One he doesn't really know what to do with. One that comes at a price. And Bilbo must decide if the price is too high. The funny thing is, he only started fleeing to the Ring more and more as he gave up on the miracle, on Thorin's memory, on himself. And now, when he has what he was never supposed to get, by all laws of reason, the Ring won't let go. It claims him, whispers reminders into his ear: ' _mine, you are mine, and I yours, you came to me, stay, stay'_. The thing about funny things is that one almost never feels like laughing at them.

"No good comes from answering doors", Bilbo mutters to the gently-murmuring water. He doesn't mean that. Of course he doesn't. But the frivolous grumpiness is comforting and benign, seeing as the alternative threatens to drag him down like wet clothes in river rapids. Fear, stomach-turning premonitions, sickly enticements. Hope, confusion. Love. They're all such big sentiments, and Bilbo is just a small hobbit, as Gandalf once so kindly pointed out.

Now, he once again needs what he cannot have - time. Time to think, to decide. Time to re-learn how to move like the living do, and to remember what his voice sounded once, in conversation, speaking truths and simple everyday tales instead of eulogies and half-hearted excuses. But if Thorin is to be believed, Bilbo has only days to find a way around almost a year's worth of slow decay.

It's an overload in the making, burning through Bilbo with such intensity that he wishes for the numbness he grew accustomed to. Like a toxic friend that makes one feel horrible, but is a familiar face in the crown nonetheless. Alas (or maybe luckily), it's a luxury he cannot afford, not with the threat of an orc raiding party hanging over their days.

A glint of something pale and shiny amongst the pebbles catches Bilbo's eyes. The gleam is white, with threads of all colours running through it, too bright for the hobbit to look straight at its source. A flash of memory flickers before Bilbo's eyes - of a stone, pale and glowing, always glowing with a soft, hypnotising light.

If he never saw the Arkenstone again, Bilbo would be all the happier for it. He knows it's ridiculous to hate a stone, but he does. He hates it with all the might of the grieving, hates it still, despite Thorin's return. Bilbo will never forget the weight of it against him, the heaviness that had set in his robe and his heart, a secret held in the soft folds of worn blue fabric and clever words and a guileless face.

He picks up a stone, searching for something to busy his hands with. Grey and unremarkable, the stone is smooth under Bilbo's fingers, almost perfectly round and blank. Just like another stone, in another time, another place, where no sky was reflected, apart from the stone one that reached down the walls, covered the floors, and even faces, surrounded them all. ' _I stood at your grave'_ , Bilbo said earlier, ' _I put - '_. He cut himself off, back then, but now, with the smooth stone in his hand, the memory is impossible to push away. A single blank stone on an empty grave. Only Bilbo didn't know that, back then. Did Thorin see, he wonders. Does he know about the rune stone?

The pain of Thorin's death was something vast and horrible, but the pain of Thorin's madness - that was something else entirely. There was no closure about it, no promise of relief or peace-making in the distant future, just a litany of days filled with anguish that comes from missing someone who is right there. But isn't. Loving a stranger with a familiar face is as cruel as mourning. To have them look back at you and see no one there whom you know or who knows you is chilling. Bilbo still remembers Thorin's clouded, hazy blue eyes, so familiar and so wrong. It was like loving an echo. Fruitless and cold. And yet, even such a love wouldn't leave, so Bilbo couldn't either.

The sun climbs higher, warming the chilly air. Bilbo shuffles down to the shine, usurping pebbles as he slides down closer to the water's edge. Reaching out, he plucks it out from where it is wedged between two stones. It's a shard of broken glass, slightly curved, so probably from a bottle, or a jar. The edges are still sharp as knives, and the surface not yet dulled by the constant roll of waves over it. Not a piece of a cursed stone, then. Just a piece of something broken, shining prettily in the light.

' _He'll stay if I ask him'_ , Bilbo thinks. ' _He'll stay, even as I drift away.'_

He doesn't want Thorin to have to love a stranger. Even though Bilbo never regretted loving Thorin, not in his madness nor in death, if he can, he would spare him the pain of it.

The glass is warm between Bilbo's fingertips, like a piece of breath caught in a shape. A shiny broken thing. With time, the water will wash away the sharp edges and make the glass as smooth as the stones on the riverbed. A fauntling might find it, pick it up, a strange air-stone, and secret it away somewhere, a small treasure of a summer's afternoon, harmless now, and just a bit magical. Like a little miracle.

Oh, bebother it all.

Bilbo pushes off the ground, getting to his feet and dusting off his trousers. Miracles and unexpected journeys and indecisive hearts. Bebother all of it, and Bilbo's own restless soul, too. If he were a saner creature or a more decent hobbit, he would have stayed home the first time around. Too late now. As it is, he's got this maddening, beautiful, insane mess of a life to deal with, and the only way to do it is to throw all sense to the wind. Just like the first time around.

Bilbo can't promise anything. But he can try.

One step at the time. After all, it's a long road to Erebor.

The Ring prods and pushes and for once, Bilbo pushes back. It feels like cutting his own finger off, only the pain is more diffused, spreading everywhere, burning like an orc's poisoned arrow. But the ache is good, grounding, cleansing in a way.

The state of things, as he sees it, is this: Thorin is alive, and Bilbo doesn't quite know what that means yet, in many ways, but he knows he must try, simply because he asked for a miracle so many times, in the quiet dead of night and in the unforgiving light of day, in his heart, and now that he was given one, it would be rude and immensely stupid to pass on it simply because it came a bit later than was ideal.

The state of things is also this: Thorin is alive, and Bilbo loves him. But that's a pot of jam he cannot open just now, not yet. For now, it's enough that he tries to hold onto his decision as tightly as he has held onto the Ring all these months, as he makes his way back home in the mellow sunlight.

 

* * *

The Company, of course, gets briefed after the official announcement. After the initial thrill at the idea of seeing both Bilbo and Thorin again, they disperse, going back to their duties for the remainder of the day. But as night closes in, they gather once more, a bit of a tradition by now really, to mull over the day's events.

They drifted together naturally in the early days after the Battle, as close as kin, all displaced like a flock of strangers in a foreign land. With most of their people still in Ered Luin, their King gone, and their Queen feeding the Mountain whatever scraps of her soul she could still spare, they gravitated towards each other, seeking out the hollow comfort of miseries shared.

Now, they meet almost every evening, sometimes to share a smoke or a game of cards, sometimes to just keep each other company. Tonight, they're all lost in thoughts of hobbits and absent kings, especially as the anniversary of reclaiming their home grows nearer.

They're sitting in one of the common rooms in the Royal wing, usually used for staff gatherings. Dori and Bombur are crouched over a game of chess, while Bofur sits by the hearth, smoking and gazing around the room. Oin and Bifur are going over the medical bay inventory together in one corner of the room, and across from them Nori sits, sharpening his knives. Ori, Balin, and Dwalin are still in council with Dis, Dain and Gandalf, last joint one before Dain returns to the Iron Hills with his troops.

“It doesn't feel right”, Gloin says. His beard glows orange, as if the sun set in it, catching the fire's glow. “We 'ave a duty.”

After Dis' speech and the private talk later on, several of the Company felt as if a greeting party should be sent for Bilbo and Thorin as soon as a confirmation arrived from the Shire that the pair were indeed on their way, eastbound. While the idea was tempting, the issues of logistics and simple common sense soon became apparent. Not that common sense did much to quiet down Gloin's indignation.

“How would Dis explain sending a party of ten half across Middle Earth for no good reason?", Nori asks. "There would have to be funding, provisions taken out of the reserves.”

“We could use our shares of the treasure.”

"And d'ya think no one would notice us missing? Balin is Advisor to the Queen, Dwalin's managing the guard alongside Thira, Ori is the official scribe, and I wager the kitchens would notice Bombur being gone."

"And I can't leave the medical bay", Oin chimes in. "The new healers are like wolf pups - clumsy and blood thirsty. If I leave them alone, they'll cut off arms and legs to try and cure a simple flu, just to prove they can."

"You make them sound like butchers", Bofur says.

"Ach, they're barely more than that. Eager as a young dwarf on his wedding night and just as air-headed."

The others chuckle, but soon the mood grows heavy again.

"Nori is right", Bombur sighs. "Gandalf said we must keep it a secret. We could hardly just disappear with no explanation."

"The Wizard has a plan, of that I'm sure", Nori says. "He's not letting on what it is, but I know he's written to Bilbo, so there must be a plan, and one that spans bigger than just Erebor." He stops to think about something, but then shrugs. "If Dis trusts him, then I guess we should, too."

No one in the room seems particularly happy about this, but they all know they haven't much of a say in the matter. Bofur blows smoke through his nose, fingers drumming restlessly on the chair.

"Gandalf always has a plan", Dori agrees. "Wizards are meddling folk, it's their nature. But I reckon he won't do anything to put them in harm's way. Besides", he adds. "I for one do not feel like playing the third axe next to those two. Not if they're gonna moon over each other the way they did last time."

"They're bound to be even worse this time around", Bofur nods wisely, tone half-joking even as his eyes remain unusually serious. He's been quiet all evening, lost in thought.

"Sweet Mahal, you're right", Groin groans. The rest of the Company joins in, some with laughter and some with long-suffering sighs.

"I still can't believe they both think no one noticed", Dori shakes his head.

"I think even the ponies noticed", Bofur says, then stands up, putting away his pipe, and walks over to the door. The council must have finished by now. "Anyway, I think I'll hit the sack for the night. Before you lot start chatting away like old women folk down in Dale and fill my head here with unsavoury images", he grins from the doorway. There are shadows there and it's only by luck that none of his companions notice that the grin never quite reaches his eyes.

"Ay, ya better", Nori teases. "I can see that glow in Gloin's eye."

"Ach, you rude ginger _basnubunt_ ", Gloin retorts. Their friendly bickering continues, followed by laughter, as Bofur closes the door, leaving his friends in a better mood than he himself can manage tonight.

 

* * *

Thorin hears the creak of the front door opening and makes his way out of the den.

After Bilbo rushed off, he'd gone back into the house, a bit at loss as to what to do with himself. Sleep wouldn't come to him, not with Bilbo Mahal knows where and in the state he was in, so Thorin took to wandering around before settling down in on of the armchairs. He found Dis' book lying open in the window seat.

The page it was open to caught his eye, and before he could think better of tinkering with Bilbo's things, he was sitting down with the book in his lap, marvelling at his sister's nerve. Or genius. Probably both.

"Bilbo?", he calls out.

"Yes", the answer comes just as Thorin rounds the corner. Bilbo looks peaky and sweaty, but there's a clarity to his eyes that fills Thorin with hope.

"Are you alright?"

Bilbo takes a minute to think about the answer, and Thorin is grateful for not having been brushed off with a simple ' _alright'_ or ' _fine_ '.

"I am not", Bilbo replies. "Things are... complicated. Difficult." He draws a shaky breath. "But I think that, maybe, I can be, given time."

With this, he meets Thorin's gaze, eyes hard and determined, making Thorin's heart beat faster, this time not in fear, but something much more powerful.

"I am glad to hear that", Thorin says.

"I am glad to say it", Bilbo replies, and Thorin can barely fight the smile he feels deep inside. For a long moment they just stand there, looking at each other. They tend to do that a lot these days. Then Bilbo clears his throat.

"I see you haven't taken my advice and gone to sleep."

"I gladly would have, but sleep just wouldn't come."

"What have you been up to, then?" Bilbo asks, peering around as he's if searching to see what Thorin did to pass the time. The conversation is a bit stilted, a bit awkward, not flowing as it once might have, but they're both putting their heart into it.

Thorin shuffles his feet, looking down sheepishly.

"I found the book Dis' gave you. It was open, so I..." he makes a vague gesture, half in apology.

"Oh." Bilbo doesn't look angry, merely surprised, as if he'd forgotten about the book, so Thorin relaxes a bit. "Right, she mentioned it in the letter. Shall we?" he motions to the den, and only then does Thorin realise they're still standing in the hallway.

Once back in the well-lit room, they settle on the window seat. It's the closest they've been since last night, and Thorin can't help but notice the warmth of Bilbo's body, the smell of him, the simple, intoxicating feeling of him just _being_ , right there, next to Thorin.

"Which one were you reading?" Bilbo asks, opening the book.

" _Ankhâshu Dush'azgzunsh_ ", Thorin says. "Ori did a masterful job with the translations."

The poem Thorin mentioned is at the very ending of the book, a sad funeral ballad. Bilbo thumbs through the book, searching for the right spot.

"There it is", he says, flipping the pages open. The words strut orderly on the parchment in Ori's tidy, unpretentious writing.

 

_**Ankhâshu Dush'azgzunsh** _

_I weep for the crows that gather 'round your blood_

_I weep for the abandoned ones who loved_

_I weep clear tears, they dilute the staining red_

_There is clearness and crimson and raven-black_

_Flowing in rivers past the body you shed_

  
  


_I weep for the crows, they are misunderstood_

_Condemned for finding beauty where no one else could_

_I weep for the eulogist, his words are falling flat_

_An adequately penned summary of you is an expectation that cannot be met_

  
  


_I weep for the crows as they fly away_

_In search of new colour in their world of gray_

_I weep for the gravestones, they all say the same_

_Izlîki amrâd – an epitaph no one can disclaim_

  
  


_I weep for others and I weep for myself_

_For acquaintances, them many, and true friends, them few_

_I weep for the grievers, the false and the true_

_But of all of the things, I do not weep for you_

  
  


_You are at peace and out of pain_

_Tears spilt for you would be misplaced_

_This is no tragedy of yours, but of those who remain_

_You have no horrors left to be faced_

  
  


_I weep for your kin and I weep for your foes_

_I weep for all for whom I am due_

_I weep for the crows_

_But I do no weep for you_  
  
  


"Why this one?" Bilbo asks. It's slightly morbid for Thorin to be reading what is supposed to be a poem dedicated to the memory of him. But Thorin smiles, confusing Bilbo even further.

"Because even older brothers need reminding sometimes that out of all the dragons in the world, none can spit fire the way sisters can."

"I see... actually, no, I don't."

Thorin chuckles at this, a soft, earthy sound that blows warmth into Bilbo's chilled bones.

"My sister either has the gift of foresight, or she's been very hopeful. Either way, this book she gave you is more than just a mere gift."

"What is it then?"

"A message. For me."

Bilbo looks back down at the page, searching for hidden ciphers, but finds none.

"I don't understand."

"None of these poems were chosen randomly", Thorin says. "That's why she wrote telling me to ask you about it. The first song - I'm guessing she sang it at her coronation?"

"Yes", Bilbo says, surprised. "How did you know? You weren't...?"

"There? No. I left before the ceremony. But I guessed."

"Balin did say the choice of song was somewhat... peculiar."

"To say the least", Thorin agrees. "Tell me... was there anything uncommon about the coronation ceremony?", he asks in a tone which betrays that Thorin probably already knows, or at least suspects, the answer.

Bilbo nods. "Yes. I'm still not entirely clear on the whole of it, but Balin said that apart from the song, there was one more thing that Dis did that was... unexpected, I suppose."

"What was it?"

"She took off her crown", Bilbo says, remembering the commotion Dis' actions had caused. "Then she knelt and said something."

Thorin closes his eyes, letting out a long breath. Bilbo can't tell if it is an expression of relief or resignation.

"Thorin?"

"Did Balin explain what this meant?", Thorin asks, opening his eyes.

"He said she'd acknowledged you as her predecessor."

"And did he say what that implied?"

"He did not."

"Well", Thorin runs a finger down the page still opened on the word about sorrow of crows. "By acknowledging me as the one who came before her, Dis made me a true king of Erebor in eyes of all."

"You were always their king, Thorin", Bilbo says kindly.

"Not officially, no. I was an heir, but I've never been crowned properly. But this way, Dis did what I never had the chance to. She made me king, in death at least."

"And what is the importance of that?"

"That as a king, I will always have a place in Erebor", Thorin says quietly, eyes distant. "It's an old law, made in days when wars were common and many went missing in battle. It is written than any rightful king of Erebor forever has a place under the Mountain. In those times, a king could disappear in battle, with no way of establishing if he died or lived and was taken prisoner. The law was written so that he could reclaim his rightful place if he ever came back. And so it stayed", he concludes, snapping out of his reverie.

"So," Bilbo starts, slowly making his way through the words. "By doing what she did, Dis made sure you could be king again, once you've returned."

"Yes."

"Is that something you want?"

Thorin pauses to think over his answer.

"I don't know", he says truthfully.

Bilbo doesn't press. It's a topic for another time. Instead, he points back to the poem in front of them.

"What about this one? I always thought it was just a strange funeral poem at first. A bit brutal. Honest. Often, I wondered why Dis had put it in the book. Guess it makes more sense now, doesn't it?"

"You haven't spent enough time around my sister to know that it is almost impossible to change her mind once she decides she's right about something", Thorin replies, a fond smile sneaking its way onto his face. "And she decided she was always right about everything around the age of twenty-four. Needless to say, she didn't quite agree with my plans to leave Erebor. I think this was her way of trying to defy me the best she could without actually breaking the promise she gave not to tell you."

"I guess I didn't get the message then", Bilbo says ruefully, eyes flickering over the poem, seeing in it all they failed to read in months prior. Well... no use crying over spilt milk. There are more important things to deal with now. Speaking of which...

"I will come with you to Erebor."

Thorin's eyes flash bright blue, surprised and hopeful in a way Bilbo doesn't remember ever seeing.

"Truly?", Thorin asks, disbelieving. It's sad, for some reason, this disbelief.

"Yes", Bilbo replies. "Yes, I think so. I just... I need to try something before we leave. Tonight. Tomorrow morning, we will know for sure."

He can see the question in Thorin's eyes, but Thorin doesn't ask. He just nods, keeping his tone as bland as water. It's the way one wards off disappointment - by turning away hope, a pre-emptive strike against loss of heart.

"Alright."

' _Do not punish him with this. For this'_ , Bilbo chastises himself. It comes naturally, this spiteful urge to keep quiet, let Thorin feel just what it feels like to be left in the dark. Holding grudges was never one of Bilbo's prettier qualities. But something in Thorin's silence - a reverence of sorts, a respect that comes with testing new-drawn boundaries - softens something inside Bilbo.

"Gandalf's letter", he sighs. "He wants me to leave the ring in the Shire."

"Does he say why?

"No."

"Wizards..." Thorin mutters the word the way one might a curse. That draws a smile from Bilbo, genuine if wry.

"My sentiment entirely", he says.

"Will leaving the Ring be a problem?"

 _Oh, Thorin._ There is no good way of having this conversation, so Bilbo decides to make the best of it and at least keep it clear and short, if painful.

"Do you remember when the gold called to you? And the Arkenstone?"

"That is not something one forgets easily."

"No. It isn't..." Bilbo fidgets. "It would seem dwarves are not the only ones vulnerable to gold sickness", he says. "The Ring... it seems that wearing it comes at a price. And ever since you... ever since I left Erebor, I've been putting it on more and more."

"Why?"

"I was searching", Bilbo says softly. Thorin's eyes are filled with confusion, falling on Bilbo as softly as dust.

"What for?"

"You."

Thorin flinches, as if struck.

"The Ring... when you put it on, you'd disappeared...."

"Yes."

"Where did you go?"

Bilbo fiddles with the corner of the book covers.

"Nowhere. I'd stay precisely where I was, but the world... it was like there was another layer added to it, I guess. Like a veil. People and things faded, became mute, like when you go under water. And the shadows came into the light."

"The shadows?"

Bilbo shrugs.

"That's what they looked like."

"Who were they?"

"I don't know. The dead, perhaps. That why I went looking for you."

"You shouldn't have done that", Thorin says in a small, appalled voice. Irritation bubbles up inside Bilbo.

"What else was I to do?", he snaps. "Where else was I supposed to look?"

Thorin doesn't reply, his shoulders slumping. Bilbo sighs, pushes on.

"The more I wore it, the more the Ring spoke to me. Soon, it became vital that I had it. The idea of someone taking it away... it was horrifying. Blind panic."

 _'Sounds familiar'_ , Thorin muses bitterly.

"And leaving it behind now...?" he trails off.

"It feels like trying to hold my breath when all in me fights to breathe", Bilbo says. The words cut into Thorin with vicious force.

"What will you do?", he asks. Bilbo looks up, his eyes torn and slightly wild, but determined.

"I will try", he says.

 

* * *

“Nasty business, keeping secrets.”

Gandalf turns around, startled out of his thoughts as he returns from Dis' council. They stayed quite late, and he didn't expect anyone in the half-shadowed side-corridors of Erebor at this witching hour.

“Master Bofur”, he says far too cheerfully, letting his best friendly-and-slightly kooky-old-man smile slip onto his face. Bofur, however, does not smile. He just pushes off the wall onto which he's been leaning, and snuffs out his pipe, walking slowly towards Gandalf.

"Mister Gandalf."

The corridor is empty and shadowy, the torches on the walls burning themselves out in the late hour of the night. A patrol should come around soon to replace them.

"Was there anything you needed, Master Bofur?"

"Ach, no."

The gleam in the toy maker's eye is something Gandalf's unused to seeing on the usually-friendly face.

"Just wondered if you'd be staying for the New Year's celebrations."

"Ah... I fear I will not."

"Important business?", Bofur asks casually.

"One could see it as such", Gandalf keeps on smiling.

"Loads of that going on lately, I reckon."

"Such are the times, it would seem."

Just as Bofur predicted, a patrol guard chooses that moment to turn the corner, marching into the corridor with new torches. The Wizard and the dwarf fall silent, shuffling to one side of the passage, waiting until the guard disappears again into the next set of halls, shooting them a curious look as she passes them by.

"Do you play chess, Mister Gandalf?" Bofur asks, catching the Grey Wizard off guard.

"Now and then", he answers, wondering where this is going. "Why? Do you fancy a game?"

Bofur shakes his head. "I only play because Dori nags. Says it's good for the mind, ya see."

"It certainly occupies the mind", Gandalf admits.

"And I bet you're good at it, too", Bofur goes on, as if Gandalf hasn't spoken. The words sound more like an accusation than a compliment.

"I have my bright moments."

"I never cared much for chess. Too much tinkering. Scheming."

The anger is so unsual for the very same dwarf who drank himself silly in Laketown and cried while watching Bilbo ride away from Erebor that it takes Gandalf an embarrassing stretch of time to recognise it. But there it is, plain as day on Bofur's face. Even his hat doesn't look half as silly as usual. Mouth set in a hard, unhappy line, eyes colder than Gandalf's ever seen them. Bofur's voice, as he talks, is sharp, rock hitting rock.

"One must think in advance to have a chance of winning, Master Bofur", Gandalf says amicably.

"One must also sacrifice a pawn or two. A bishop sometimes, even a rook."

"Sometimes, yes. But he does it only when he must - to save the queen, and the king."

"Ah, but you see", Bofur lifts a finger. "Even the queen is sacrificed, if needs must."

"It's a ruthless game, at times", Gandalf retorts. He keeps his smile in place, even though they both know they are no longer speaking about chess - not really, if they ever even were to begin with.

"It is", Bofur agrees. "As I said - not my really my pint of mead. Nor the players - clever, but cocky, making mistakes."

The air between the towering Wizard in shabby robes and the dwarf crackles with tension as Gandalf tries to work out his fault in this. Anger doesn't suit Bofur - it's awkward on him, like a pair of too-big shoes. It makes the lines of his face look wrong, as if he's trying to imitate a picture he once saw of what anger is supposed to look like. But the final effect is more disconcerting than if the dwarf truly glowered and scowled the way Dwalin or Dis might. Anger on a perpetually serious face is merely a passing cloud in late autumn, expected, unremarkable. But anger on a face moulded by smiles and worn by laugher - that's like sudden sleet in high summer months, a backwards-running river.

"I somehow doubt you hate the game so much, Master Bofur, even if Dori does nag you as often as you say", Gandalf says, cutting to the chase. "So, why don't we speak openly?"

At that, the dwarf deflates, all the ill-fitting anger draining away, leaving him looking tired and washed out, like an old battle flag sagging in the suddenly-motionless air after a gust of wind dies down.

"I know ours are small lives, Mister Gandalf", he says, rubbing at his eyes. Looking back up, he adds: "But they are still lives. And I beg you not to toy with them. Ye'r a wizard, and your business is one simple folk should not meddle in, so I do not pretend to understand it, but Bilbo, Thorin, the others... haven't they been through enough?"

The question is heartfelt, bleeding words right from the bloodstream, and Gandalf almost wishes for the clumsy anger again. Bofur's face, back in it's softness, is much harder to look at like this.

"I'm asking, please, let them find peace", Bofur finishes, eyes bright and imploring.

Gandalf's faced down shadows from half-forgotten nightmares and men of power each frightening in their own way, but it's always been this - simple, pure-hearted honesty - that threatened to be his ruin.

"I do not think peace is in my power to give", he says, letting his smile drop. Lies are of no use now.

"But you could help", Bofur urges. "You could make sure they get here safe. You could warn them - or us - if there's trouble."

Why these thrice-damned dwarves are so set on breaking his heart _,_ Gandalf will never understand. Maybe it's only fair. After all, he's done nothing to save their hearts at all.

"There are some journeys that have to be made alone, Master Bofur."

Bofur's face falls, brown eyes looking at Gandalf like bruised flesh, aching and battered.

"Haven't they been alone enough?", he asks.

"They have each other now", Gandalf reminds him.

"Do they? For how long, this time?" Bofur's eyes carry ages within them. "And at what price?"

"We must all sacrifice our pawns sooner or later, Master Bofur. Bilbo and Thorin know this. Everything comes at a price."

"Not everything. Not the loyalty of friends."

"Doesn't it?", Gandalf raises his eyebrows. "Was the price of your loyalty to Thorin not silence and Bilbo's grief?"

At this, Bofur relents a bit, bowing his head.

"The greater good is not always an easy thing to stand for", Gandalf concludes, speaking very much out of experience.

"Then I s'ppose I'm lucky to have been born a dwarf and not a wizard", Bofur replies, but not bitingly. "Because the more I look at it, the more it seems to me that the greater good is made of a thousand small miseries. All the good I need is right here", he gestures around. "In friends. In warm homes and caring families. In laughter, and song, and stories told to keep memories alive. And for that - for _them_ \- I'd give up the greater good, if it were mine to do with as I liked. I'd ruin the king for a few pawns, you see. Lousy chess player, I am."

Gandalf regards the toy maker for a long moment.

"Not a chess master, perhaps", he says with a small smile. "But a worthy friend."

Bofur smiles back, a sad little thing already half-dying on his lips.

"That is a kind thing to say. But, I 'ave the feeling it won't help change your mind, will it?"

"Alas, some of us must care about the greater good, I'm afraid", Gandalf sighs. "Even when it is not the most heart-warming of duties."

Bofur nods his understanding, fiddling with his hat.

"This is why I don't like chess, Mister Gandalf", he says at length. "It's such a lonely game. All those pieces, but in the end, the player is always alone, losing one piece after another until only a few remain. Even if he wins, what a lonely victory it must be."

"What a lonely victory indeed", Gandalf mutters.

Straightening his coat, Bofur touches a hand to the brim of his hat.

"Well, I must be off. It's no good skulking around the corridors at this hour."

"Good night, then, Master Bofur."

"Good night, Mister Gandalf."

Gandalf watches him go, a swarm of thoughts whirling about in his head. What a constant well of surprise dwarves are. Stubborn, loyal, maddeningly endearing creatures. But Gandalf is old, old as mountains, and just as firm when the occasion calls for it. He must be. As he told Bofur, someone must work for the greater good. Gandalf doesn't expect many to understand this role of his - his trade in a thousand small miseries and lonely victories. But he must play it nonetheless.

Even if sometimes, he'd sacrifice the king for the smile of a few pawns, if only he could.

 

* * *

The chest is plain, unadorned. It's more of a box, really, only with a lock. Bilbo hates it.

He toys with the Ring, eyes glued to the battered wood of the box. Behind him, Thorin waits, keeping his distance. They're in the den and, for all intents and purposes, it's just another October afternoon. If a nosy neighbour were to peek in through the window, they wouldn't be treated to much of a view. Just Bilbo, staring at a box, and a rather inexplicable dwarf in his living room.

The window is fairly far away, so they wouldn't notice a few things off with the scene. For example, they wouldn't notice the paleness of Bilbo's face or the sweat on his brow. Or the way Thorin's nails are biting into his palms. The too-fast rise and fall of Bilbo's chest would be completely lost on them, his too-fast breathing invisible and inaudible behind the windowpane. They wouldn't know the scene in front of them has been going on for quite some time now.

“I can't", Bilbo says. The box yawns empty at him, waiting for its prey like a carnivorous mouth. He is supposed to put the Ring away overnight. A test, of sorts. A test Bilbo is failing.

Thorin steps closer, concern etched in every line of his face. He's out of his depth, but the strain in Bilbo's voice forces him to wade into the deep end, so to speak, even at the risk of drowning.

“Let me.”

Bilbo's fingers clench desperately around the ring as Thorin reaches for it, and he flinches away as he turns around.

“No.”

It's a hiss of a word and the eyes that look back at Thorin are not Bilbo's. For the first time, Thorin thinks he is beginning to understand how Bilbo felt that day at the ramparts. Whatever stares back at him is not Bilbo – there is no warmth in the wild greed that meets him there, no stubborn loyalty in the madness with a golden shine. Looking back at Thorin with Bilbo's eyes, is a stranger, an intruder, and Thorin has never been so afraid in his life. He doesn't fear injury, no – even with the Ring's power coursing through him, Bilbo is hardly strong enough to physically harm Thorin. What Thorin fears is loss. He fears losing Bilbo to the same madness he himself was once lost to.

Bilbo's knuckles are white where his fist is tight around the ring, his whole body drawn taught, ready to flee or fight.

"Bilbo... let me", Thorin pleads again, but Bilbo is no longer listening. His eyes are glassy, misted-over with absence. He doesn't seem to see Thorin at all. When he speaks again, the words are aimed at the ether, floating from one void into another.

"He wants it for himself", Bilbo mutters to himself, as if in some dark revelation. "He wants to take it away from me. Can't let him. Won't let him."

"Bilbo!"

The hobbit's eyes cut back to Thorin and he startles, as if he'd forgotten Thorin was there, or just noticed him standing there, ashen-faced and wide-eyed. But even though his eyes focus on the dwarf, the suspicious look in them remains.

"Steal it, yes, that's what you want", he accuses. "Probably talked to Gandalf, too..."

Helpless, Thorin's mind is buzzing, one though chasing the next like rabid cats.

"On my honour, I do not want it", he tries. Bilbo snorts - an ugly, mocking sound, harsh and cutting.

"Honour... what worth is there in honour? In a word?"

"It was enough for you, once", Thorin replies, grasping at straws. If he could only get Bilbo - _Bilbo_ , and not the thing speaking through him - to see him... The memory of a golden-floored room lingers in Thorin's memory, of fur-lined cloaks and heavy crowns, of countless voice and then one, breaking the sickly spell that settled over him. _You are changed_.

"You said you'd vouch for me. Will you still?"

A shadow slithers across the blue of Bilbo's eyes and then lifts, just a flicker that could easily be a trick of light.

"Thorin...?" It's part-question, part-sigh as Bilbo's eyes clear and find Thorin, who slowly takes another step closer. Bilbo opens his fist and stares at the Ring with a mix of horror and longing, the way one in pain would at opium, black poppy seeds and fields of red flowers, a toxic habit.

"Take it", Bilbo all but whispers, eyes never leaving the Ring. He looks and looks, the emptiness in his eyes replaced by a feverish glow, like a forge burning too-hot. Like flame off metal, off gold.

"Take it", he repeats, sharper this time, and the urgent edge to his voice propelling Thorin into motion. As his fingers closing around the Ring every instinct Thorin has screams at him to throw it away, but he keeps the wretched thing firmly in his grasp. In front of him, Bilbo sags, the sick light leaving his eyes alongside his strength and for a moment Thorin thinks he might fall. He reaches out to catch him, but Bilbo just grasps at his arm and remains standing.

“I'm alright."

"Sit down."

"I'm fine, Thorin. Just...go."

Thorin lets go grudgingly, torn between making sure Bilbo is alright and getting the Ring away as quickly as possible, and sets the blasted thing in the wooden box. Casting one last worried glance at the still-standing, breath-heaving Bilbo, he leaves to hide the Ring away, as agreed.

Thorin navigates the corridors with hurried steps, turning left and right until he find the door leading to the cellar. Too tall as he is, he must bend slightly at the waist to make it into the passage, and further into the low-ceiling, windowless room that smells of wooden barrels and clay. There's a tall shelf by the far wall, piled high with empty jam jars and dusty crates. Thorin crosses the room and sets the box aside before planting his hands on the shelf and pushing. The shelf gives way, revealing a small niche in the wall.

Picking up the box, Thorin sets it in the empty slot, checking the lock once again. Once satisfied, he sets the shelf back in place, the groaning of the wood mixing with the scraping sounds of it being pushed and dragged across the floor.

The cellar is bathed in warm half-light of an oil lamp, and Thorin takes a moment to gather himself. Part of him wants to run back to Bilbo, but another part - the part that still remembers the gleam of a golden hoard in a mountain far in the East, and the horrible, shiny dreams that came from it - wants to stay in the cool calm of Bilbo's cellar for just a few moments longer.

He closes his eyes, but opens them again quickly. In the darkness behind closed eyelids, Thorin sees Bilbo's empty eyes glaring back at him once more, foreign and terrible. The gloom of the cellar feels confining all of a sudden, the low ceiling and no windows making it look more like a tomb or a prison. Thorin thumps back upstairs, making sure to lock the door. He hangs the key around his neck - just like another key, opening a different door that held a similar curse at bay.

When he comes back, Bilbo is seated in the den, a threadbare quilt wrapped around his shoulders as he stares unseeingly out the window. He doesn't turn around as Thorin enters, and all Thorin wants to do is go to him and gather him up in his arms until warmth returns to Bilbo's bones and the tired lines around his mouth and eyes smooth out. Before he gets a chance to speak, Bilbo beats him to it. It's lucky really - Thorin doesn't think he would have known what to say anyway.

“You asked me how I could possibly understand why you did what you did at the Gates that day. You asked me how I could forgive.” Bilbo looks into his cup, but then raises his eyes to pin Thorin with his gaze. “This is how. Forgiveness does not mean approval, Thorin, but understanding. And I do. Understand, that is.” Bilbo's gaze wanders away again, back towards the window. When he speaks next, it is more to himself than to Thorin, but it hurts Thorin anyway. “Eru, do I understand.”

"How long?" Thorin asks, his voice rough, scratchy words scraping his throat raw.

"A while now", Bilbo replies. "I first noticed it on my way back to the Shire. No, actually, that's not right", he frowns. "I first noticed it in Mirkwood, back when we were travelling. Just before Thranduil's guards caught us. But I didn't think much of it then. Maybe I just didn't want to. Who knows."

They lapse into silence for a few moments. Bilbo continues to stare pensively with haunted eyes and Thorin moves to sit in the chair opposite Bilbo's. The silence stretches like a thin cloth, fraying at the ends, until finally Bilbo sighs and speaks.

“I am sorry for the lies. Back then.”

“You did what only a true friend would do", Thorin repeats.

“Still", Bilbo shrugs. "You trusted me and I've betrayed that trust. For that, I am sorry. Trust is not an easy thing to have. I see that now more than ever.”

He says the last words with the sort of soul-deep understanding that sets Thorin's teeth on edge. He never wanted this for Bilbo. There is not a soul less deserving of this in whole of Middle Earth.

"Did anyone tell you what happened after the day at the Gates?", he asks, a decision forming in his gut. Bilbo looks up, shakes his head.

"I went back to the hoard, banished everyone from following. Not that they seemed eager to. I don't blame them", Thorin adds hastily. "I've fallen so far from grace by then that I didn't deserve them to give me the time of day, let alone their loyalty. They all stayed by the Gate, waiting, listening to the battle raging on, sitting while others fought our fight. Defying their very blood because of my say-so."

Bilbo looks at him, and Thorin forces himself to meet his eye.

"I fled to the gold, to its calling. But it was no comfort. If anything, it shone too bright. I made my way into the hall where we tried to trap Smaug, walking along its golden floor. My head was so full of voices, Bilbo."

"Whose?", Bilbo whispers.

"Everyone's." Thorin wrings his hands, looking down. "Balin's, Dwalin's." He raises his head again. "Yours."

"What did I say?"

"The truth. That I was changed."

"And then what?" There's compassion in Bilbo's voice and a sadness in his eyes. It makes him look far too old.

"Then... I heard you. I _heard_ you, too late, but still..." Thorin leans back in the chair. "The sickness broke. By the time I went back to the Company, they were weary of me, I could see. Kili stood up to me, still thinking me to be of unsound mind. You know the rest."

He clears his throat, driving the point home. "So, if there had been lies, then that is what it is. For any lie you told, I did not perish, and the harm of them fell on the wrong shoulders." ' _Your shoulders'_ , Thorin thinks, ' _which harm never should have touched'._ "But for each lie, you also said what no other dared. You gave me the hard truth. The truth that saved me."

He aims to make Bilbo feel better, but as he finishes, he sees a shadow settle back over Bilbo's eyes. It's not the same one from before, but it still chills Thorin down to the marrow of his bones.

"The truth lead you to battle", Bilbo says, voice brittle. "If I had known, I would have never said it. If lies would have kept you inside the mountain, safe, then I..."

"You would have done just as you have", Thorin finishes. Bilbo's eyes are raw, accusing, as if he is trying to convince himself as much as Thorin that he means what he says, but Thorin sees them for what they are - regretting, aching. And just maybe, healing. "Because that's who you are, Bilbo. And because that was not who I was supposed to be. And you reminded me."

For a span of a breath it seems like Bilbo will fight him on this, the stubborn set of his mouth so familiar and endearing that Thorin almost smiles. He manages to keep his expression serious, and at last Bilbo sighs, seemingly deflating, shrinking back into the soft padding of the armchair.

"This won't be easy", he warns.

"No", Thorin agrees. "But it will be well. In time."

"How can you be certain?"

"Because it's you." It's said simply, as if it's the most obvious answer in the world. "And there's strength in you that will not fail."

"When did you become an optimist?", Bilbo asks and Thorin's heart lifts at the almost-teasing tone of it.

"Yesterday, when you answered the door."

It's meant to be light, it really is, but it come out too honest, too soppy. Bilbo blinks at him, and then sighs again, this time more in exasperation than heaviness of heart.

"Whatever am I to do with you?"

' _Whatever you wish'_ , Thorin wants to answer, almost does, but he stops himself just in time. It's not a helpful at all answer. Instead, he shrugs, tries on a small smile, just for size.

"I am at your service, Master Baggins. Shall I make some tea, for a start?", he asks, as awkward as a hobbit in deep water.

"Only if you promise not to juggle any of my dishes", Bilbo retorts, trying for levity. He manages, somewhat, and Thorin is so grateful for the effort, this tendril of what-could-be, that he plays along easily.

"I have never juggled your dishes", he feigns consternation.

"Well, don't start now either."

Despite his efforts to keep his face serious, the corner Bilbo's mouth quirks up, giving the game away. It's so endearing, so everyday and simple, that Thorin's breath catches. They're on a good path to become a semi-tragic legend, but this of all things - this plain, bread-and-water intimacy - feels more monumental simply because for so long, Thorin believed it to be forever out of reach.

And now, it's right here, one outstretched hand away, fumbling and flawed and incredible. And Thorin is stripped to his barest, helpless before something as simple as a shared joke about a folly from so long ago. He wants to keep it going, he really does. But he's always been terrible at telling jokes. He always messes up the timing.

“I love you."

It's clumsy and rushed, a bit desperate, a bit breathless, and as honest as words get. The jest vanishes, the joke gone to waste. The juggled dishes clatter and break, altering the memory. Thorin's heart hammers in his chest, racing as if it can still catch up with Thorin's runaway tongue. As if it was not the one who made him speak in the first place, with all the bravery and thoughtlessness of a fool.

Bilbo's face falls. He looks almost disappointed, although that is not quite the right word.

“I know you do."

He really does. But Bilbo isn't foolish enough to think that love exonerates people from their innate tendency to do stupid things. If anything, it's a great catalyst for stupidity, when left to its own devices. Love, like all things living, is flawed.

“I know, Thorin", he repeats, looking at his hands now, as if the wretched words are right there, in his palms, waiting for judgement. "But that hardly fixes things.”

He can't look up, can't see Thorin's face shift from hope to something shattered or shuttered, but he can't say what Thorin wants to hear either.

"I know", Thorin says, and there's no anger in his voice. He sounds like he actually does know, and that, if nothing else, gives Bilbo hope.

"Tea."

Thorin leaves for the kitchen, and Bilbo watches him go. They're stumbling through the motions, he knows. This is not how poems talk of love. This isn't what a legend looks like. This is life after the last page, the never-written epilogue where the poorly worded sequels hide. It's the part of the story no one wants to read about, because there's nothing elegant about it, nothing poised or poignant. Much less impressive than an epic ending in blood or victory, love or tragic separation. This is what sudden declarations look like. This is what real hearts feel like. Ink paints a better picture, maybe, but blood flows more mortally than that.

He loves Thorin. He truly does. But it's more the slightly-larger-than-life sort of love at the moment, an idea, a general state of being rather than a feeling, and Bilbo doesn't want to say it just yet. Not while he knows he loves Thorin more than he feels it, because the knowledge is all around him rather than within. No. He will wait until it's smaller, until love is a feeling condensing on the tip of his lips like dew, until Bilbo can cup it in the palm of his hand and give it to Thorin.

 _This won't be easy._ Well, hasn't he called it.

Clanking of pottery drifts in from the kitchen, and Bilbo closes his eyes. Where yesterday there was a gaping hole in his life, now there's just so much. It's dizzying, like dancing with your eyes closed, spinning fast, fast, fast in place. It's the sort of feeling that almost always leads to falling.

' _You already fell'_ , Bilbo tells himself. The last thing he hears before the sleepless night and the efforts of the morning overtake him and lull him to sleep is the sound of water coming to a boil.

  
  


  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basnubunt [foot of cat or cat's foot; a sneaky person]  
> Ankhâshu Dush'azgzunsh" [Sorrow of Crows]  
> Izlîki amrâd [remember death; from Latin memento mori]
> 
> (small side note: Thira is my OC, and just happens to share a name with another OC from determamfidd's Sansûkh!)


	8. Through shadow, to the edge of night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually thought I'd die of old age before managing to update this fic, but lo and behold, here's a new chapter

****

* * *

The water comes to a boil with a wheezing whistle, startling Thorin out of his thoughts. He lifts the kettle of the stove a bit clumsily, his hands just slightly too big for the handle. Steam fogs up the window as Thorin pours the water, and he waits for panic to set in. It doesn't come. Not panic, not regret. Thorin's heart has calmed down, no longer echoing in his ears, his mouth.  Instead, there's a lightness, or a light emptiness in Thorin's chest. It's the strangest of feelings, calm, cool, clean. Like a messy thread finally starting to unravel, or a long stretch of monochrome sky wiped clean of colour just before snow or rain. Thorin feels somehow removed from himself, looking in on himself from outside, examining the perimeter of this feeling that smells like fresh air and winter months and clean slates. It's far from ideal and it's as idyllic as barren landscape, but it's a start. Or maybe it's a development, because it doesn't feel like a start at all. It feels like a resting place after a long journey, temporary but much less harrowing than a start. Much more complex, too. An interlude. Doesn't really matter, he supposes, what it is, as long as it doesn't feel like an ending.

And it easily could have been. All too easily. Like Bilbo said, love is not enough. Like Thorin said – he knows. He does. Despite Dis' teasing about his (lack of) savvy when it comes to the matters of the heart, Thorin's walked too many miles lately not to learn a thing or two. If the road taught him anything, it taught him about the volatility of things, about the mistake everybody makes thinking that true love means eternal love. They are wrong. They don't understand that love can be as true as anything and still not last. Its transience does not make it a lie. So, Thorin knows that there was a potential ending lurking in every corner of the conversation, shaped as a possibility of Bilbo saying “here is a truth: I loved you, once, truly. Here is another: love passes, like all things do. True love is a perishable good. But when I loved you, that was true”, and it never sounding wrong or false.

So, an interlude feels like a blessing, bleak and feeble, but a blessing nonetheless. Thorin will take it.

He takes the tea out into the den, the cup looking ridiculously delicate in his hands. He is about to say something when he notices Bilbo's head lolling, his mouth slack with sleep. Thorin sets the cup on the near-by footstool and fetches a second quilt off one of the armchairs. It's still too warm to stoke the fire, but the sun is slowly fading and the room will grow chilly in no time. Draping the quilt over Bilbo's lap, Thorin almost reaches out to tuck away an errant curl but stays his hand last-minute. There are still invisible border running between them, walls not to be breached. Doors that only open on invitation. The thought of touching Bilbo with his eyes closed feels like stealing.

That is not to say that reaching out doesn't feel as natural as breathing, and that drawing back doesn't make Thorin's arm feel as heavy as it was after his first-ever sword fight. Sometimes he misses the simplicity of battles fought with weapons. It would seem that wielding a blade is a run in the meadow compared to keeping hands idle and the heart content with scraps of what could be, one day.

But as it is, Thorin keeps his hands to himself and chooses to be happy that there is a “could be” to be thought about at all. After all, it’s so much more than what he’d had only day before. These days, Thorin knows how to count his riches.

 

* * *

The knock comes barely moments after Dwalin closes the door.

“Enter”, Dis calls out, even if she'd rather not.

“Is this a good time, Majesty?”

The dwarrowdam that enters the room is tall, broad-shouldered, with a riot of dark brown hair and a beard so thick any braids in it are hard to see. Dis would know, she used to practice making them when she was younger. In fact, there is little about Thira that she doesn't know – or, well, at least there used to be – from the different ways she wields her sword with her left hand than with her right to the way different types of ink look on her skin, which always reminded Dis of tiger's eye stones.

“As good as any, Captain”, she replies, not missing the twist of Thira's mouth that means she's trying not to roll her eyes. If Dis were a lesser dwarrowdam, she would smirk. In fact, she's not entirely sure she isn't. “Is there a problem?”

“Since when do you call me 'Captain' in private?” Thira asks as she moves deeper into the room. All formality is gone from her voice and her posture, and she seems torn between trying to test the waters and simply being annoyed.

“Since when do you call me 'Majesty' in private?” Dis counters, looking back to the letter-in-progress in front of her.

“Since you've had a crown put on your head and I'd become bound by the laws of our people to address you as my rightful queen. And since you've been doing your best to make it clear that my standing with you is not what it used to be by denying me an audience. And sending Dwalin to do it, too. I've just assumed that a proper address would be appropriate. ”

Mahal, Dis almost forgot how sharp that tongue could be when the occasion called. Or when its owner was slighted. In this case, it was a bit of both, and none of it unjustified. Still, justice does little to take the edge off Thira's words, especially when she knows precisely where to aim them. It would be cruel, if it weren't fair. Any other day, Dis would give as good as she gets, but not today.

“Well, it's unnecessary”, is all she says. “And it has been a busy couple of days.” _Weeks_ is more like it, but this is no time for a pity-party.

“That it has, aye.” Thira leaves it at that, still standing as still as in the old days of her early guard duty, when she was a mere foot soldier.

A few silent moments pass by, the only sound bouncing around the chamber being the scratching of Dis’ quill. But the letter is drawing to an end, no matter how Dis wishes for another mile of blank parchment to save her from a conversation she is not all that keen on having. She finds herself signing her name at the bottom of the page all too soon, and then there’s little else to be used to keep up the pretence of busyness. She sighs, sealing the letter and turning in the chair to face Thira.

“There was something you wished to discuss.”

“I hear there’s a new Captain of Guard in the city.”

Thira feigns nonchalance, glancing at her nails. Even so, Dis catches the half-impish, half-spiteful flash of her eyes.

“If you are fearing for your position, rest assured it is safe. I doubt the Dwarves of Erebor would be very keen to answer to an Elf.”

Thira snorts. “Hardly. I was merely wondering what merit you thought there was in harbouring an Elf.”

Dis’ face hardens, eyes narrowing.

“Since when do you judge the kind and kin of those who come to us for help?”

“I don’t. You know I don’t.”

“Then what? Why does it matter?”

“It matters because you are no longer the makeshift leader of a tatty, exiled people!” Thira cuts in, forceful and loud, losing whatever composure she held on until that moment. “You no longer have the luxury of thoughtless mercy. There is no move you can make now that won’t have implications, consequences. You’ve started your rule by leaving quite an echo behind you, but I’m starting to wonder if that was only because you still haven’t found your true voice.”

If anyone else had spoken to the Queen in such an insubordinate, downright disrespectful way, they would be facing a night in the cells. Thira, however, is one of the few exceptions to that rule, and the only one who ever pushes her favour like this, apart from maybe Dwalin. Dis knows this, and so does Thira. That’s the way it’s always been, even before they were what they are now, one a Queen and the other an experienced warrior and commander, before there were power plays and differences of station separating them. In this moment, they are who they’ve always been, only Dis doesn’t feel quite up to matching Thira for all she’s giving just now.

“Have there been voices?”, she asks calmly. Thira’s breaths are still coming fast, but when she speaks again her voice is more levelled.

“Not yet. Everyone’s still too grateful to be alive, too busy rebuilding, and too tired the rest of the time to say anything. But there will be, soon.”

“The Elves have been instrumental in our victory. The people will remember that.”

“Do you really think that will erase centuries of animosity?”

“Of course not. But it will help.”

“And what when the people start asking why we are housing and feeding an Elf when our own supplies are still barely enough?”

“One Elf hardly makes a difference!”

“I know that”, Thira says, walking closer. “And you know that. But when things get rough, people will turn on the outsider first.”

“You show very little faith in your kin.”

“I simply show an understanding of my kin.”

“Do you think I should have turned her away then? We do not send away those in need. Not while I am Queen.”

“Do not insult me by pretending to know me so little”, Thira snaps. “I would not care if you take in a warg pup or a troll spawn if they came knocking, and you are well aware of that. All I ask is that you consider what the consequences of your charity might be.”

By now Thira has moved right next to the desk at which Dis is sitting, one hand on the edge as she towers over it. Dis raises her chin and meets Thira’s eyes.

“And what makes you think that I haven’t considered them already? That I haven’t been considering them all along, since the moment I took my oath?” she asks, suddenly a queen once again. But Thira doesn’t cower or shrink back.

“Because I am not quite certain of your reasons for taking in the Elf”, she says, as sure as stone.

“Do you think I would ever do anything to endanger my people?”

“Never wilfully.”

“Do you question your Queen's judgement?” Dis pushes out of the chair, voice growing chilly. Thira keeps on meeting her gaze, eyes never wavering. There’s no tremble in her voice as she replies.

“I question your heart.”

The words hit Dis like a dull blade.

“I do not rule with my heart.”

“You’ve always ruled with your heart. It’s what makes you a great Queen.”

“Then what is it that you question, _Captain_?”

Thira doesn’t flinch, nor does Dis expect her to, but her face twists a bit, and Dis knows there won’t be any holding back now, if there was any before.

“Why is she here, _Dis_?”

“Her king exiled her.”

“No. _Why_ is she _here_?”

Dis knows what Thira is asking. She knows the answer she is supposed to give. But she can’t. Maybe it’s pride and maybe it’s self-preservation, but she can’t. And yet, she must. Because it’s Thira, and she already knows the answer, but Dis must say it.

“You know why.”

“And is that why you’ve invited her to stay?”

Dis looks away. She knows where this is going. “She deserves a chance to move on. To try and heal.”

“She must be very special”, Thira says, cold and callous. “To be granted a clemency you won’t even give yourself.”

“It’s not the same.”

“It’s exactly the same!” Thira shouts, reaching the end of her tether. “You cannot heal the hearts of others and hope you won’t notice your own rotting away while you do it, Dis. It’s duplicitous at best, and cowardly at worst.”

‘ _They are dead’_ , Dis wants to scream, because once again Thira finds the rawest part of her and grips until it hurts. ‘ _They are dead and it is not the same’_ , she wants to say, but she doesn’t. In another life she would have given as good as she got, but not now.

“Tauriel is a guest of Erebor, and my personal one. I believe you will ensure her safety just as you would of anyone else.” Dis’ voice is flat and impassive. “If there is any trouble, please let me know. Now, if you don’t mind, I have business that awaits.”

Thira stays tense for another moment, like she is preparing to continue to fight, but then her shoulder drop and her face slackens into disappointment.

“Of course, Your Majesty”, she says, and Dis has never felt less like a Queen.

And Thira leaves for the door, Dis sits back down. She reaches for a new parchment and starts writing when Thira’s words reach her.

“You may think me cruel, and maybe rightly so. I am sorry if I am, but I made a promise to myself, the day you married Vili, that I would never let the day come when you would be heartbroken. Looking back now, it was a selfish promise, made more to save my own heart than yours. Seeing as I’ve broken that promise, I have to try and keep the one I’ve made much earlier, before I’ve even had much of a mind to make promises at all. And that was that I would not live to see you die. I intend to make sure I never break that one. Even if it means being cruel. I cannot let you die Dis, and I cannot let you let your heart die away either. I’m scared there isn’t much of a difference there.”

By the time Thira finishes speaking and the door closes with a soft thud, the words of the letter are spilling over, the ink smudged by tears.

 

* * *

When Bilbo wakes, it's dark outside and it seems Thorin's got the fire going. There's sleep still sticking to Bilbo's eyes, cotton in between his thoughts, a drought dusting his tongue as the air grows too warm. With no sign of Thorin anywhere near, Bilbo is sorely tempted to simply go back to sleep, but he knows there'll be a crick in his neck come morning if he stays in the armchair, and after today's unexpected expeditions and other events, he really needs a wash.

“Thorin?”, he calls out. The memories of earlier that day swim back up, and Bilbo groans under the weight of them. What a mess they are. But even so, seeking out Thorin feels like the right thing to do, no matter what. Bilbo tries not to dwell on that particular thought for too long, lest it drags him under and makes him surrender. It's not the right time for that. Not yet.

When no reply comes, Bilbo makes his way out of the chair. His back aches and his shirt is crumpled, so he stretches and sets out to find Thorin before he draws a bath for himself. Padding through the corridors to find nothing but empty rooms, Bilbo tries the kitchen, but to no avail. He's about to look outside when the stairs to the cellars catch his eye. He anticipates the pull in his chest a few moments before it comes. It's the sort of premonition that comes easily to those with awkward luck in life, like a part of them is always expecting the wrong turn, the all-too-easy slip-up.

The murky darkness is inviting, warm like the inside of a dragon's mouth, and just as dangerous. There is no whisper in Bilbo's ear this time, but even so, he can feel the Ring calling, silent but vicious. It's the simple knowledge of it being so close and yet out of reach by mere agreement that is so jarring. If Thorin had taken it somewhere, hidden it away, then maybe Bilbo's urge to go looking for it wouldn't have been like this, this itch beneath his skin, this feeling of everything being upside-down, topsy-turvy and wrong. With the Ring, things weren't exactly good, but without it, everything seems worse. Even the confused, ragged-edged disbelief and the cautious joy of Thorin's return feel like broken stones under Bilbo's feet now, starker and yet less clear-cut.

“Bilbo?”

Thorin's voice breaks into Bilbo's reverie, and he turns to find Thorin standing in the doorway, wiping his hands with a soil-stained cloth. Thorin eyes him with poorly-hidden tension, and it is only then that Bilbo realises he is halfway down the cellar stairs.

“Where have you been?”, Bilbo asks before Thorin can comment.

“The fire needed more wood. I went out to chop some”, Thorin answers, obviously choosing to ignore the sharp, unnecessary edge that’s crept into Bilbo’s voice, and oh, Bilbo could just throttle him. It’s hard enough that Thorin is just standing there, looking for all the world like a worried mother hen, while Bilbo is still half-way into their combined doom and by his own doing no less, and he just _wishes…_ he wishes Thorin would snap, or scoff at him – anything at all to level the playing field. Because this steep metaphorical slope that they’re standing on is maddening. Bilbo is trying is darnest, but it’s of little worth to anyone when all he wants to do is slip away into the cool half-darkness of the cellars where the whispers can drown out the yearning. He hates it, hates the weakness of it, the ease with which betrayal offers itself as an option. And there’s Thorin, calm as pond water, chopping Bilbo’s firewood, talking to him in a soft voice, and looking at Bilbo like _that_.

It’s all wrong. Horribly, painfully wrong.

They’re broken, Bilbo realises, a twist in his gut confirming it. There’s something about them that’s broken, like an unbalanced scales, and they’re constantly on the verge of tipping over. There used to be a rhythm to this – to them. Bilbo’s temper made easier to bear by his honesty, however blunt it may have been at times, and his loyalty, and Thorin with his somewhat cracked-veneer ideals, and his hot head and harsh tongue, his stubborn sense of duty. They used to be whole, each of them, in a cracked, slightly worn way, definitely imperfect but not just shadows either. Now, it feels as if they are just cut-outs with faces, paper dolls stuck with a single face, a single state of mind and heart. Their rhythm is a broken song. It’s almost worse than silence.

 All the tentative hope of the past day seems so far away now, as ludicrous as a wish made upon a shiny penny found on the road. For a desperate moment, Bilbo feels like giving up. The cellar door is so close, and all it would take to send Thorin on his way is a few harsh words.

‘ _Chopping wood. Not a very kingly task’_ , Bilbo wants to say, as mean as anything, downright cruel. Well, no, he doesn’t. But he knows he should. It would sting, but the sting would be real, in the midst of all this wrongness. It would be nasty, and real, and true to what they are now. And maybe Thorin would finally lash out. Or maybe he would leave. Bilbo can’t tell with certainty anymore, and that’s more frightening than anything. Either way, Thorin would be better off, angry or gone, just not here, looking at Bilbo and making him feel for all the world like a villain in his own story without even meaning to. Because Bilbo can’t do this. He said he would try, and try he did, but he can’t. He can’t, he…

“Bilbo!”

Bilbo’s eyes snap up. Thorin is standing much closer than just moments ago, and Bilbo doesn’t remember him moving. He also doesn’t remember when his hands started shaking or when his breathing sped up, but as it is, he is breaking out in a cold sweat, the world spinning inside his head.

One of Thorin’s hands is hovering over Bilbo’s shoulder, and for a moment all Bilbo wants is to lean into it, let Thorin hold him. He knows Thorin is waiting for permission, or a request, but for some reason Bilbo’s voice isn’t really of great use to him at the moment. Before, their touches came casually, exhilarating but also easy, in a way. And then, later, they came in a rush – of fear, of loyalty, of relief. Bilbo never had to ask. And now, he doesn’t know how. Not now, the way he is. It would be a trick.

So, Bilbo doesn’t ask.          

“I was just going to check the supplies”, he lies. It comes worryingly easily. “I couldn’t sleep any longer, so I thought I might as well do something useful.”

“You should get some more rest.”

“Didn’t you say we were in a hurry to leave?”

“Aye”, Thorin says, still eying Bilbo suspiciously. “The sooner we leave the better we will be able to press our advantage.”

“Well, then, we best get packing. We might just be ready to leave at first light.” Bilbo rubs his hands down his trousers, drying them of sweat, suddenly all business-like. He hopes Thorin won’t notice the undercurrent of panic lacing his words, won’t read the desperation that lingers there read to chock Bilbo and make him go back on his word.

The sooner they leave, the better. Thorin said so himself. For once, Bilbo doesn’t feel the need to bicker or contradict him. It doesn’t matter that there’s more to Bilbo’s reasons than outrunning orcs.

Thorin looks like he wants to push or call Bilbo out on what is blatantly an attempt to distract attention. A part of Bilbo wishes he would. How much easier it would be that way. But even before Thorin’s shoulders sag and he nods with a sigh, Bilbo knows he got away with it. Because he knows Thorin and all the history and shadows of memory that bind him. The guilt, the hauntings of spirits. Dark, sad understanding that Bilbo wished Thorin never had to find. Bilbo knows all that holds Thorin hostage against himself. All those things are the reason why Thorin is now so changed. All those things, and love, too. And that one, Bilbo thinks, might just be the worst one. Out of everything, it’s painful to know that Thorin loves him enough for Bilbo to be able to get away with lies. Not when lies were that which almost destroyed them for good. Love is a horrible thing to be a hostage to.

“Lead the way then, Master Hobbit”, Thorin says with a rueful smile before Bilbo can beat himself up some more, ceding the battle.

Bilbo swallows, willing away the pang in his chest, and moves back up, away from the cellar doors.

“We’ll need food for the journey, something that will keep. I guess we should travel light, but a few spare sets of clothes wouldn’t go amiss. And blankets. Lots of blankets”, he begins. Thorin listens, looks, moves around Bilbo and with him, occupying the space that’s been rotting away empty and cold for so long, and Bilbo lets his hands work, packing and wrapping, and breathes. He just needs to make it through the night.

 

* * *

If this were a story in one of Dis’ books, Thorin supposes that this would be the part that comes after the ending. He’d always wondered what happened in that blank stretch that stayed behind the neat, tidy endings of epic tales. If he were to believe the books, that was when the happiness and prosperity happened, or alternatively, ruin and despair befell everyone and everything. Dis being Dis always had a morbid love for the tragic ones, but then again, that might have been just because Dwarves did love their tragic epics. A cheerful bunch, Dwarven poets and historians were. But the fact remains that stories were always so simple. Victory or defeat, glorious life or tragic death. There was never anything about messy, anguished afters that came once the heroics were over and done with.

So, if this were a story, then now is when he and Bilbo are supposed to be happy, or if not that, then at least victorious in some way. Which only confirms that stories know as much about reality as elves know of, well, anything. In other words, absolutely nothing, if you ask Thorin.

Because there’s nothing very victorious in watching Bilbo putter about Bag End, more precisely the kitchen, an hour and a half into their journey preparations, partly listless and partly filled with some nervous energy that Thorin is afraid to try and pin point for all its frightening familiarity.

“I think we should take as much food as we can carry and that won’t go off quickly”, he says. Bilbo frowns.

“We can always top up our supplies in Bree before we reach the stretch of open road.”

“The less we are seen the better.”

“Do you think Orcs wills stop in the Prancing Pony to ask if anyone’s seen a hobbit and a dwarf?” Bilbo snorts and it almost feels like the old days. Thorin smiles.

“No. But they could always rampage the place and get answers.”

Bilbo’s face falls. “Of course.” He looks at the sacks and bags already stuffed full by his feet. “I guess I will just have to leave out my second-best waistcoat then. And the writing set.”

He looks so crestfallen over the writing set that Thorin loathes the next piece of news he has to deliver.

“I also think we shouldn’t use ponies”, he says, leaning against the sink. “We will need to cover our tracks, and that’s easier done if we’re on foot. Besides, ponies need food, and they’ll make it much more difficult to travel on the less-known paths. The Misty Mountains alone would be a nightmare on horseback. It will take us longer, but I think we will be safer that way. We should be through the worst of it by the time winter truly comes, and if we have luck, we should be in Erebor before the worst frosts.”

“Alright”, Bilbo says, although he doesn’t look thrilled by the idea of crossing so much land as winter closes in on them. “If you think it best. Definitely more blankets then. And more hard cheese.”

Bilbo adds another pack of cheese to one of the open bags on the kitchen table before tying it shut and adding it to the small pile of the already packed ones. He’s still in the clothes that he fell asleep in, a soft shirt and simple trousers, and Thorin can’t help but notice how domestic it all looks. Soft and uncomplicated, even if it is anything but, and so very much like something just within reach. Like something Thorin could have, one day. Something they could have, together.

“There should be some more spare blankets in one of the guestrooms. Try the chests, would you?”

Bilbo looks up as he speaks, wiping at his forehead, and catches Thorin’s eyes. Thorin swears he can hear the hitch in Bilbo’s breath and watches the battle that rises in his eyes, softness against sharp edges, a warmth against the same shadows Thorin’s noticed are a normal part of Bilbo these days. For his part, Bilbo seems to become aware of just how much he is giving away. He closes his eyes briefly, looking tired and torn, before letting out a small breath and turning back to the neat stacks of food on the table still waiting to be packed.

“And I am definitely taking a nice, warm bath before we leave”, he says, tone aiming for light and missing by a mile. “Eru knows when I’ll be able to do that again.”

In order to stop himself from simply crossing the room and reaching for Bilbo, Thorin clears his throat and pushes away from the sink. “I’ll go see about those blankets then.”

“Good.”

Making his way through the halls, Thorin takes in the rooms. There is such warmth here, such feeling of home. He wonders not _if_ Bilbo will miss it, but how much. Wonders if Bilbo will resent him for dragging him away from home once again. But try as he does, Thorin can’t feel guilty about that. Not when it means saving Bilbo’s life. He's been stumbling through the job so far, Thorin knows. As much is obvious, what from his poor timing and runaway tongue, and what from Bilbo acting skittish and on edge. Thorin doesn't know if that's all due to the words said earlier, but a part of him wonders just how much more difficult he has made things. The horrible thing is, he doesn't really have it in his heart to regret it. How does one regret the simplest of truths? Still, he steels himself for keeping that particular flood at bay for the time being and give Bilbo time.

He finds the blankets in a large, ornate chest at the foot of the bed in one of the guest rooms, just as Bilbo said. There’s a fine layer of dust on everything in the room, speaking of lack of use, and Thorin wonders just how alone Bilbo’s been in the past months. The thought of Bilbo alone among all these empty rooms makes Thorin’s chest ache. Was it on purpose, a self-imposed solitude? Or have all those jokes Bilbo made about his reputation being ruined forever by their first journey actually held some truth? There’s still so much left for them to talk about, Thorin realises. So much more than just heartbreak and ghosts and ashes. There’s a span of half a year of lives lived that neither of them knows about when it comes to each other. Well, the road to Erebor is a long one. Thorin only hopes silence won’t stretch even longer.

He brushes the dust off the chest as he picks up the blankets and vows there and then that one day he will make sure Bilbo sees his home again. The blankets soft and slightly stiff under his hands, smelling strongly of lavender, Thorin closes the door to the room and makes his way back.

“Found them”, he says as he returns to the kitchen. He finds Bilbo done with packing and holding a frayed piece of parchment.

“They let me keep it”, Bilbo says, looking at the map to Erebor. He looks troubled, but then again, he has been looking so for most of the evening. “I think they meant it as an invitation back. But truth be told, I’ve hidden it away as soon as I returned. I couldn’t look at it. I was so afraid I’d run right back, but you still wouldn’t be there and I couldn’t bear it.”

Thorin is stunned speechless. Bilbo looks up.

“I never thought I’d use it again”, he continues. “Though, I doubt we’ll be sneaking in through the secret door, which isn’t even that secret these days, I’ll have you know. So, I guess we won’t be needing the map. Unless you’ve forgotten the way.”

“I haven’t.” Thorin’s voice is rough. “I still know it.”

“Good”, Bilbo nods, pensive. “It would hardly do for us to get lost and wander around. I think there’s been enough of that for a while.”

He moves away from the table and crosses the kitchen until he’s standing in front of Thorin. “Don’t you?”

“Yes.” Thorin’s heart is in his throat. Bilbo reaches out, and for a breathless moment Thorin thinks he’s about to take Thorin’s hand, but then he notices that Bilbo is holding out the map, rolled into a neat scroll.

“I think you should take this. It was yours to begin with”, Bilbo says.

“It was a gift. It’s yours now”, Thorin replies. As he does, he reaches out to close his hand around the map, intending to push it back into Bilbo’s hold. His fingers brush Bilbo’s where they meet over dry parchment and ages old ink. It’s such a small touch, but it burns like fire on frost-bitten skin, sudden and completely not enough at the same time. Bilbo’s gaze drops to where their hands are touching, eyes softening to something knowing, a bit scared and slightly sad, and entirely Bilbo-like.

“Well, I won’t be needing it, so think of it as a gift as well” he says, swiping a gentle thumb over the knuckles of Thorin’s hand. “Or a message, better yet.”

“What sort of message?” Thorin is pretty certain he’s having trouble remembering the basics of breathing. It hardly matters. He’d hold his breath forever if it means keeping the moment still, Bilbo’s hand against his, and that soft look in Bilbo’s eyes which now travel back to meet Thorin’s.

“That I trust you will make sure I do not lose my way.”

Thorin can’t look away, even though it might prove easier to look anywhere else. He’s coming undone in some invisible way, he’s certain. A hidden stich unravels, like a wing unfurling, posing for flight, or maybe a branch breaking, stealing away footing and balance. Either way, it feels like a free fall.

Before Thorin can do anything rash, like another impromptu love declaration, Bilbo withdraws his hand, leaving Thorin’s skin feeling cold.

“I think I am going to take that bath now”, Bilbo says. “I really need to get out of these clothes.”

“Of course”, Thorin replies, stepping out of the way and trying very hard not to dwell on the images of Bilbo’s clothes falling away.

“You should get some rest before we leave. I left some food unpacked if you are hungry.”

“Thank you.”

Bilbo brushes past him. He’s half way down the hall when he turns back around.

“Thorin…”

“Yes?”

Bilbo fidgets, looking like he’s debating something with himself, and Thorin waits patiently for him to be done. Indecision and tense silences seem to be the theme of the evening. In the end, Bilbo just shakes his head, a sharp, small movement meant more for himself than Thorin, and says:

“I’ve put some clean sheets and quilts in the third-door-to-the-left guestroom. Please don’t spend another night on the floor, it’s hardly comfortable, and completely unnecessary seeing as there’s a perfectly good bed you could be sleeping in. I would abhor the Sackvill-Bagginses to find out my guests are sleeping on the floor. Lobelia would never let me hear to end of it.”

Tamping down the tide of disappointment that rises in him, Thorin offers a small smile.

“Of course.”

“Well. Good night then.”

“Good night, Bilbo.”

Bilbo leaves and Thorin counts his way down the door-filled hall until he finds the right room, near the stairs to the cellars where he found Bilbo earlier that evening. The bed creaks under him as he takes Bilbo’s advice and decides to catch a few hours of rest before they leave. The troubles of the night weigh down Thorin’s thoughts, but soon enough sleep comes like a heavy hush, and Thorin gives into it, one hand clutched in the quilt that smells like comforts of Bilbo’s home, the key still hung around his neck heavy and skin-warm. The last thing he hears is Bilbo moving around the house, the soft, approaching patter of feet lulling Thorin to sleep.

* * *

 

There's dew still clinging to the grass in places that the sun hasn't yet touched and the air smells of sleeping forests and far-away snow. The road to Bree is empty, the dirt beaten into a worn path almost mute with only two sets of feet beating softly against it. Bilbo's bare feet make almost no sound, while the thudding of Thorin's heavy boots gets swallowed up by the earth. Their warm breaths cloud in the morning chill as they quietly make their way out of Hobbiton.

“This is the second time I've left without a word”, Bilbo says, glancing back the way they came, at the still-sleeping town hidden in rolling green hills peppered with balding trees and dying crops. “Thank Eru for Hamfast.”

They woke up before the break of day, intending to get a head start and slip away before anyone could ask any questions, however benevolent. Since they've gone through all the preparations the evening before, with Bilbo packing the food and Thorin canvassing the rooms for any other useful trinkets, there wasn't much to be done than get dressed, eat some breakfast and be on their way. They moved silently around each other, perhaps not comfortably, but certainly with more unwitting ease than any two creatures should be capable off after being in each other's company again for merely a couple of days.

With a letter for Bilbo's gardener stuck in the door and travel sacks flung over their shoulders, Bilbo and Thorin left Bag End before the first flowers in Bilbo's garden decided to yawn prettily at the world.

“Will you miss it?”, Thorin asks. “The Shire?”

“Yes”, Bilbo answers simply. “I'll always miss it.”

“You can come back. As soon as it's safe again, you can...”

“Thorin.” And really, it's all it takes these days to quiet Thorin – the sound of his name in Bilbo's voice. Bilbo's face is full of a soft feeling, much like sadness, but maybe less daunting. Homesickness, perhaps, pre-emptive and instinctual. “There will always be something in life that I'll miss. But it is on me to decide which things I can do without, and which I cannot. I love the Shire. It's home. It's the first home I've known. But I've had the Shire for fifty years. I will manage without it for a while. Besides, homes can be rebuilt.”

There's heaviness in the almost-light words, one of experience and unforgiving circumstances playing teachers to the unprepared, and Thorin wants to say something spectacularly stupid, something along the lines of ' _I'll make sure you never miss anything ever again, if only I can find a way'_ , but he stops himself. He knows empty words when he hears them, even if the sentiment behind them is true.

“That's a brave thing to do”, he says instead. As if he doesn't know it, first-hand. As if Bilbo doesn't know it, too. But it's the truth. There's bravery in leaving. In letting go. In hoping. In believing that there will be days to come and homes to build. These days, Thorin thinks that the bravest things he's ever done never once called for a sword and that the worst enemies he's ever fought never had scales to host their fire.

Bilbo shrugs, doesn't meet Thorin's eyes.

“Yes, well...”, he says, one hand fiddling around his pocket – a nervous habit Thorin's noticed. “Hopefully, there won't be any dragons this time.”

It sounds like a joke, but Bilbo's eyes are distant, thoughtful, his voice flat, so Thorin doesn't laugh.

“I should like to think we are quite done with dragons for a while”, he says gently, and Bilbo finally looks away from the scenery and at Thorin. Thorin allows himself a small smile, and after a moment Bilbo smiles back – a small, frayed thing of an expression, but there nonetheless. Thorin wants to grab the wind by its wings and fly.

“Yes”, Bilbo says, flinching his hand away from his pocket and wiping it down the leg of his trousers, like it's sweaty. “Yes, I should like to think so, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> buhel = friend of all friends
> 
> izgil = the moon
> 
> Dayamu Khuzan-ai menu - Blessings of the Ancestors Upon You (A farewell)
> 
> edelweiss - meaning: noble courage  
> crocus - meaning: youthful gladness
> 
> In the next chapter - more Bilbo, Thorin on the road, and Dis's coronation :)


End file.
